


the mess we've made

by leafletter



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, As we all know, But a softie, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, kyoutani's an accidental delinquent, the second years are third years, there will be a lot of yelling, yahaba doesn’t play volleyball, yahaba's class president
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafletter/pseuds/leafletter
Summary: Class President Yahaba Shigeru is a subscriber to duty and a practitioner of control, from everything to his neatly parted hair to his hallway patrols of Aoba Johsai High. It's never a question of what he can and cannot do, it's more of a question if he has time or energy for it. For the first time, he's handed an impossible task: to help Kyoutani Kentarou pass his classes or else he'll risk suspension from the volleyball team.The impossible would normally be a piece of cake, but Yahaba loathes the volleyball team with a borderline unhealthy passion, so what’s stopping him from watching it crash and burn?
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 58





	1. Monday, August 15

Yahaba clears his throat, as he always does. A customary two times, after he takes a conservative swig of water. The front-office ritual of his, performed before he picks up the phone for the intercom. Here he goes.

“Good morning, Aoba Johsai High. It is Monday, August 15th.”

A line he has said many times this year, “This is your third-year class president, Yahaba Shigeru, speaking. I’m here with today’s morning announcements.”

Looking down at his bullet-pointed paper for the first announcement, Yahaba tries to swallow the venom that bubbles up in his throat. He hates what he’s required to say next. Hate is a strong word, he knows, a strong word for a strong feeling. It’s his duty to read what’s on the paper, however.

“Our boys’ volleyball club team has returned victorious from the Inter-High Preliminary Tournament, avenging last year’s loss to Karasuno. They will be proceeding to Nationals this year.” Muted cheers from adjacent classrooms make their way into Yahaba’s ear.

There’s more, and Yahaba grits his teeth: “Please… Congratulate any team members if you see them and consider joining the cheer squad to support our school when our team goes to Tokyo for Nationals.” No doubt that last bit had been put in at their principal’s request. Wonderful. The fake cheer infused into his words drips off of each one with a sickly sweetness. Banners with congratulatory encouragements would be hung from the windows at lunchtime, no doubt.

Finally, back on track: “In other news, winter midterms are fast approaching. Teachers request all those who are struggling in classes to attend supplementary courses after school and on the weekends.”

A few more announcements about the second-years’ fundraising festival and an upcoming track meet follow, and Yahaba reads each one with perfect intonation, already forgetting the tiny fracture in his composure a minute ago. He doesn’t even think about what he’s reading, knowing that his voice sounds reliable, authoritative, and prepared ringing through the halls of the high school for his peers to hear.

And as always, “Rule the day, Aoba Johsai.” 

Placing the phone down with the customary click, Yahaba straightens and adjusts his maroon tie, prim and proper in its place. It hadn’t needed adjusting, but one can never be too neat. The school secretary nods at Yahaba, who nods back and turns on his heel to leave the office to get to class.

Passing by an exasperated Watanabe-sensei, Yahaba pretends not to eavesdrop as he hears the overworked administrator grumble at his stack of reviewed grade-reports, “ _He’s going to have to be held back. I… don’t want to deal with him for another year…_ ”

Yikes. Yahaba will pretend he hasn’t heard that, it’s pretty uncommon at their private school for a student to not pass their exams, let alone have to repeat a grade. He struts with a quickened pace as if to make up for his nosiness and finds himself in the quiet hallway, because the first classes of the day are underway. 

This quiet, empty walk from the front-office to the classroom is one that Yahaba relishes, it’s his safe space. It could be an alternate universe, since here he exists away from anyone else. No one should be in these hallways at this time except for him. As class president, it’s rare in his schedule that he gets time to himself, time from not having to think, plan, or coordinate.

Brisk footsteps behind him interrupt his contemplation, and he doesn’t get to turn his head to see who it is, because whoever the footsteps belong to abrasively smacks into Yahaba’s shoulder as he passes by. The sheer force and strength of it thrusts Yahaba off-balance, and it’s only when he catches the sight of a buzzed-yellow haircut that he understands.

Yahaba snarls, “Watch where you’re going.” _Asshole_ , he thinks, but forbids himself from saying, since he has his class station to uphold. Adjusting his tie is his proxy for resetting himself, because he knows he and the asshole are walking in the same direction, so he laments the end to his peaceful walk to class.

Kyoutani Kentarou. A name Yahaba has memorized, as he has done with the rest of those in his third-year classroom, but one that he would do just as well without knowing. Kyoutani’s hands are buried in the pockets of his volleyball track jacket. Which reminds Yahaba: Kyoutani is reason number three that Yahaba despises Aoba’s volleyball team.

Shaken out of his tunnel vision, Kyoutani grunts as a lame excuse for an apology that he probably thinks suffices, and continues on his way to class, a route which Yahaba regretfully must also take. Kyoutani is going to be considered late to class, whereas Yahaba is always presupposed to be on time, always excused for his morning duties. He scowls that they’ll show up in the doorway at the same time, not wanting to have anything to do with the delinquent.

* * *

“Tell me why we have to deal with him.”

_Him_. Yachi Hitoka throws a quick glance to where Yahaba is glaring, outside the window. She already knows who he is talking about but looks anyways. She knows Yahaba won’t stop unless she looks as well. He’s currently burning a hole into the back of Oikawa Tooru, who has just left the student council room on the way to volleyball practice after holding a meeting with the first-year secretary, Yachi, and Yahaba, the junior vice-president. Oikawa had just given them their weekly tasks, a comprehensive list that he thought up, and none of which he must execute, and all of which Yachi and Yahaba must figure out how to do. 

Yachi pretends to take him seriously, “Technically, our school is a democracy. He’s been nominated and voted in. Popular vote wins, usually.” She fiddles with her hairclip, a pink sparkly star barrette that goes well with her personality.

Democracy? Inaccurate. Happy monarchy? More like it. In an unprecedented show of popularity, the senior class had nominated Oikawa as president, though he hadn’t even given a thought to running. Not wanting to let anyone down, he had accepted, and the rest of the student council was fine with it, even though Oikawa repeatedly had warned them his duties as captain were going to always trump his duties as president, when it came down to it.

The student council had wanted a boost in funding and reputation, both of which Oikawa would be able to provide by way of the principal and administration—and now this was the pyramid of high school hierarchy which Yahaba was entangled in.

Yahaba grunts, “That was more of a rhetorical question. We know that he barely does any work.”

“While that is true, it is also a president’s job to delegate,” Yachi adds a few sparkly gel-penned doodles to Oikawa’s neat list of tasks to prioritize which ones they should do first. “Which he’s definitely good at.”

“I hate being a minion.”

“Then run for it next year. Then you’ll have minions of your own,” Yachi adds, “Including me, right?” Thank the heavens for Yachi. She was a year younger, but a close family friend who Yahaba had gotten over his crush on a long time ago. They’re better as best friends. 

Yahaba opens his laptop, getting ready to send the emails that Oikawa has requested them to, “No, I would do my responsibilities properly. Not pass them off to others and then gallivant around as team captain of the stupid volleyball team, schmooze with the fangirls, or flirt endlessly with that other third-year he’s always being verbally abused by.” Taking out his anger on the keyboard, the loud taps sound through the small room. His laptop doesn’t deserve it.

This tirade garners an eyebrow raise from Yachi, “You kind of seem to know a lot about Oikawa for someone who hates his guts.” It had sounded a bit stalkerish. Yahaba doesn’t care.

“It’s that kind of thing where when you don’t like someone, you just hate the way they breathe.”

He thinks about how he wants to be president next year, and wonders if he can be president in a way that is better than how Oikawa does it, even though he wants to be the furthest thing like him. _How can I fill someone’s shoes but not walk the same path?_ That would prove to be a challenge.

Pulling a cheery aphorism out of thin air, the way Yachi does when she knows Yahaba is on the verge of losing it: “Letting someone you hate have space in your head gives all the more power to them!” She’s way too young to pass off as wise, so Yahaba lets out a laugh, one with no malice, but one that’s a little tired. It’s time to let it go, for now.

“You’re right. As always. I just don’t see why we have to idolize the volleyball team. They’re just athletes who work hard. Other people work hard too, why do they get a pass? We’re always stuck doing the class chores, and the whole team gets exceptions from teachers just because they’re on TV occasionally. Like right now! Tell me you wouldn’t rather be drawing something else.”

Yahaba nods violently towards Yachi’s art notebook, which she has started drafting up the poster for their school field day on. He’ll bet three-hundred yen she’d rather be drawing her own characters, such as the cartoony cats and magical wizards that she defaults to when she should be paying attention in class.

“You got me there…” She asks, “Are you jealous?” Had the question come from anyone else, he would have punched them in the face, since it’s Yachi—he knows she means no harm. He sighs.

“I’m genuinely not. But I know you’re probably tired of hearing this.”

She giggles, “This time, you’re right.” The sound of her giggle softens him up. It’s good to hear her laugh, makes his student council duties more bearable. Sometimes he forgets that he’s doing this all just so he can get into a good college and become a professor of law. Yachi reminds him that it doesn’t all have to be drudgery.

Forgetting about Oikawa, Yahaba jokes, “I’ll walk you to your subway stop if you pretend to be my girlfriend the whole way.” He’s doing this for her sake but loves to give her a hard time. _Tease Yachi a bit, will you? Toughen her up a bit,_ her mother would always say to Yahaba, winking at him.

She swats the air, “As if.”

“You know you hate the scary men on the train.” Yachi freezes, he’s struck a chord there.

As though she’s already imagining any male over five-foot-five, she extends her hand, “Fine, deal. I’m only holding your arm. _Not_ your hand. Only because I hate scary men. You’re not scary, even when you want to be.” Yahaba bristles, because he’d like to think that he can be a commanding presence when necessary. If Yachi isn’t scared of him, then no one would be. 

“Don’t talk to your fake-boyfriend like that.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, _I like girls!_ ”

* * *

That had been a year ago.

Over the summer, Yachi’s family had reached out for a sushi dinner with Yahaba’s, over which they formally broke the ice that they would be moving towns, for Yachi’s mother’s work. Each and every detail meticulously worked out, Yachi to transfer to Karasuno High School and leave Aoba Johsai behind as though she had never stepped foot there.

_A new town for new clients_ , Yachi’s mother had said, adding: _a new town for Yachi to come out of her shell, as well_.

Yachi had told Yahaba a week before that, but Yahaba had not wanted it to be true. He had been in denial the entire week. The whole dinner, he had not eaten, while Yachi could only watch in silent horror, not knowing what to do. The parents, oblivious, just wrote it off as Yahaba’s pickiness with certain foods. Believable, since Yahaba is picky, proper, and needs everything just the way he envisions it.

His one and only friend, gone like that.

Outside the porch of his house, Yachi had promised, “It won’t be the end. I’ll text you every day, I promise!” _Yeah, right_.

Yahaba shouldn’t be so angry. Karasuno isn’t that far away. In fact, he could probably run there right now in half an hour, tops. But with your best friend, any amount of distance is too far. He hates thinking that she’ll go somewhere else, bubbly personality attracting other friends, friends who she will undoubtedly love, who will make her forget all about him. Texts are just empty pixels on a screen.

It’s selfish. _He’s_ selfish. He knows it. He can’t stop. 

“Who’s going to be my friend?” Yachi shrinks with each of his yells, “I can’t stand anybody at school besides you!” It’s true, and she knows it, so she shrinks even further, lip quivering and eyes filling with glittery tears. He’s destroying her, and he knows it. The baby-blue moon clip in her hair shakes and vibrates in time with her own tremors.

Yachi’s voice croaks, “I know—I know, but you could try? Try to be friends with someone else, too?” She’s only trying to help, and even when he’s being terrible, she’s just being her best self. She does the opposite of whatever he does, always. It makes him even more mad—that she can be her best, she can be Yachi, even when everything is absolutely shitty, and they have no control over it.

“I’m not likeable like you! Everyone thinks I’m an uptight ass, they tolerate me because I’m friends with you.”

Yachi lies, “That’s not true—” It’s not lying to her, because she truly sees him as someone redeemable. No one else really does. He doesn’t, certainly.

“ _Shut up!”_

Yachi cringes at his outburst, pearly tears at last spilling over the edges and plopping onto her white polo. It hurts to see, and it hurts to know that she’s hurting just as much as he is. Even if it’s validation that he’s not the only one affected. Voice hoarse, Yahaba groans, “You’re leaving. _Just go already_.”

Believing that she truly is upsetting him, Yachi shuts her open mouth, and starts to sprint in the opposite direction, towards her house. Even in distress, Yachi’s run looks more like a frenzied skip. It’s only a minute walk from his own house, so he’s not worried about her making it home. He counts to sixty before he hears her front door open, then shut, around the corner. He knows she’s safe inside. Then, he kicks the post of his house’s mailbox, cussing at the pain in his foot as he limps to his own door. Anything to take away from the numb.

Since he had been a monster, he texts her a “ _sorry”_ that same night and winces when there is an “ _it’s okay”_ in response even though he knows it’s anything but.

To make up for it, he doesn’t text back, gifting her a fresh start at a new school, with friends that will love her enough to never lash out like he had.

* * *

Sasaki-sensei, the history teacher, catches Yahaba before the bell rings, “Yahaba, Watanabe-sensei would like to speak to you during lunch. Please go visit him in the front-office at your earliest convenience.” She wears a nervous, knowing look on her face, one that Yahaba doesn’t spend time decoding.

“Of course. Thank you.” Yahaba bows, then takes his exit, used to having random teachers and administrators call him in for requests or updates on anything and everything that he can help out with. Surely this is the same sort of stuff.

Except it isn’t.

Watanabe-sensei pleads, bringing his hands together in a prayer, “Yahaba, _please._ ” It’s rather embarrassing, because Watanabe-sensei is the head administrator. He’s not someone who should be appealing to a third-year high schooler. Though he’s the president, Yahaba doesn’t get off to being in positions of power or having the upper hand. Though that’s exactly what his peers must assume.

He’s truly curious, “Why me?”

“You’re the class president, for crying out loud.” Yahaba sighs, to which Watanabe-sensei cowers, “I know that he’s not the friendliest.” That was quite the understatement. No one talks to Kyoutani except for his volleyball teammates.

“It’s not about that—you think I have the ability to ‘influence’ him above passing grades?”

“All of the third-year teachers discussed, and we thought that this would be the second most effective solution. The most effective, but the one with the most unpredictable outcome, would be to suspend him from the volleyball team. A suspension from the team will be inevitable, if his grades continue on the current trajectory, but the principal is not open to that, especially with Nationals.” It all makes sense now. To solve it any way except by hurting the volleyball team, of course. Yahaba, once again, brunts the behind-the-scenes inadequacies of the trouble caused by the infernal volleyball team.

“For my sake, for his sake, and for all the staff’s sake, could you please consider? None of the teachers can get through to him.” He can’t blame them. It’s an impossible task.

Yahaba pries, “What about his parents?” Parents are effective, usually. They can yell or nag.

“His mother is unresponsive.” Strange. “We’re not really sure what to do here.” 

Yahaba doesn’t see another way out, “I don’t seem to have a choice. What do you need me to do?”

“We’re going to put you next to him in every class, and we’re going to tell him that he needs to get to school early to help you with your duties if he doesn’t do his homework or pass a test.” That’s the icing on the cake. The cherry on top. None of Yahaba’s safe, quiet, ritualistic duties to keeping the order of the school are entirely his own to do anymore.

_So, this is just as much of a punishment for me as it is for him_.

“Alright. The second that I deem it ineffective, though, I’m not doing it anymore. I have my own responsibilities to tend to, taking on someone else’s as well is asking a lot.” This experiment that the teachers have concocted is bound to fail—and no one is going to say it’s Yahaba’s fault if it doesn’t work out. That much he’s sure of, he knows Kyoutani will be blamed, as he has been up until now. Why not? They’ll be off his back for a few weeks, until everyone realizes Kyoutani can’t really be saved. Then, it’s up to the volleyball team to figure out how they’ll manage without him.

Watanabe-sensei brightens, as though he has just won the lottery, “We understand. If anyone can do it, it’s you. You always do anything you can put your mind to. The teachers are rooting for you, president.” He stammers, absurdly saluting at Yahaba, who wishes he would just sit down and stop. Maybe he should have rejected him. This was way more embarrassing.

“No need for that, Watanabe-sensei, really. I’ll be going, now.” 

Yahaba stands up, straightening his tie and smoothing down his sweater vest, then clasping his lunch bag, which he’ll eat in the classroom, alone—as he always had this year. Duties, classwork, homework, more duties—to keep the third-year class afloat, then home. He’ll fit Kyoutani in somewhere in the gaps.

* * *

A metallic squeak on the linoleum floor. Kyoutani nudges the foot of Yahaba’s desk, “Did you do this?”

Obviously, he’s referring to the fact that at the beginning of each class that next day, Kyoutani has been stopped by the teacher at the front door, pointing him to his new spot at the front of the class next to Yahaba’s desk. Each time, Kyoutani had narrowed his eyes, then made his way over to his new assigned seat. Yahaba sits in the front corner in each class, next to the window.

“No, the teachers did.” Pausing, then continuing, “Trust me, this isn’t something I wanted either.” He’ll be the first to let Kyoutani know that this is mutual disgust. Not a happy arrangement, at all.

“Stupid.” Kyoutani means the teachers, and for once, Yahaba thinks Kyoutani has gotten something spot on. But that’s not for Kyoutani to know.

“Don’t talk about them like that.” He sounds like a goody-two-shoes, and knows it, but he is sympathetic for them for once. “They’re just trying to help.” The bell rings.

Kyoutani grunts a noncommittal reply, then proceeds to take out his notebook—the only one he seems to have and puts it on his desk. It’s just a show, because he knows Kyoutani will not even open it.

An anomaly, this is. Kyoutani sitting in the front row, when he’s usually in the shadowy back. Tie loosened, top button of his shirt unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up to reveal lean toned arms, Kyoutani sits back with his legs spread, tapping his foot restlessly as the mathematics teacher drones on about the basics of first-order integrals.

“Kyoutani, what is the result of the integral for the interval when _x_ goes from 0 to 1?”

The answer is five halves, which Yahaba has done in his head, but penciled in his notebook as well for future reference. Kyoutani has not even given it a second thought, which is clear from the way that his notebook _is still closed._

“Dunno.”

The silence after Kyoutani answers is normal, because this is general protocol for what happens whenever Kyoutani is called on.

“ _Okay_ ,” Ito-sensei strains, then his eyes fall on Yahaba. “Yahaba-san?”

“Five over two.”

“Correct. Please show Kyoutani-san your work so he can follow along.”

_This has to be a joke_.

Yahaba roughly tears the page with his scratchwork and holds it out to Kyoutani, who doesn’t reach for it. With resignation, Yahaba lets go of it, so it falls a bit and lands on Kyoutani’s desk. Glowering, Yahaba bores a hole into his own notebook, previously organized and perfect notes—which Yachi had taught him how to organize, he remembers with a pang—now interrupted by the frays of the torn page. To distract himself, he pretends that something intriguing is on his calculator, not wanting to let Kyoutani get to him.

In each subsequent class, similar incidents occur. Each one ruffles Yahaba’s feathers more than Kyoutani’s, and Yahaba starts to wonder if this is getting through to Kyoutani at all. At the end of the sixth period, Yahaba finds himself more exhausted than usual, brainpower and mental capacity used up from having to wonder how he’s going to cover Kyoutani’s ass for however long this is supposed to last.

In English, thankfully the last class of the day, Yahaba’s tense shoulders are going to cramp, so he finally lets out an exhale while rubbing his poor neck muscles. Kyoutani’s eyes dart to Yahaba, noticing.

He grunts out, “You good?” His voice is low enough for the teacher not to notice. He’s grading papers in the back.

A movie is playing from the projector, an American short film. They’re supposed to be filling out a worksheet, answering questions with full sentences in English. Yahaba already has seen this movie, so his answers are all filled out. In contrast, Kyoutani doesn’t even have a pencil on his desk. Thankfully, since there’s the movie, there’s no opportunity for Kyoutani to be called on.

Confused, Yahaba startles, “Oh—what? I’m fine?”

“Whatever you say.”

Kyoutani’s foot is in the middle of the space between his desk and Yahaba’s, mercilessly tapping away. Earlier in the morning, this had annoyed Yahaba to no end. Now, he’s been conditioned to be used to it. His eyes lose focus as he wonders if he’ll be conditioned to be used to all of Kyoutani by the end of this.

Trial and tribulation, all to fulfill his sense of responsibility. Was the Prime Minister of Japan himself tasked with such impossibilities? Yahaba would like him to meet Kyoutani Kentarou.


	2. Thursday, August 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Yahaba Shigeru more aggravating than having to memorize chemistry rules?
> 
> Don't ask Kyoutani Kentarou. He doesn't fuckin' know the answer to that. If he had to choose, he'll say it's Yahaba, out of spite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this contains references to high school chemistry. I spent some time thinking about which subject Yahaba would teach Kyoutani and just went with chemistry because I feel like Kyoutani is one to write with a lot of pressure on his pencil and make really big dots for electrons. 
> 
> YAY for me finally outlining everything and setting a chapter number, though!

The month finishes out. The last day of August, maybe September, will show him some mercy. 

Kyoutani’s had to sit next to the Pomeranian-haired president for each class, and the looks that Yahaba shoots him out the corner of his eye have Kyoutani on edge, which is probably why he feels so restless all the time. It would be nice if Yahaba could turn his condescending gaze somewhere else. How can he watch what Kyoutani’s doing and still answer all the teacher’s questions at the same time?

Whatever. Kyoutani doesn’t care for school, it’s only the prelude to volleyball practice.

Every single day since this new change, he’s subjected to Yahaba Shigeru’s new tactic to get him to do _something_. What that something is, Kyoutani doesn’t know. This would be a lot easier if Yahaba could just tell him. It’s not as though he can magically make his grades better in one week. It’s getting rather ridiculous.

Today, the stubborn soul next to him has unfailingly tossed him scraps of paper, fragments of notes to tell him to pay attention during class, or occasionally a whispered, “ _Are you even listening?_ ” making it his mission to get Kyoutani to be a better student, oblivious that he is just as much of a distraction. Some of the catapulted sticky notes even hit his head, which is annoying because Kyoutani will have to pick them up off the floor, even though it’s not his fault. Yahaba Shigeru is a not a trivial force to be reckoned with. 

If this had been what the coach had meant by, “Get your grades up, _or else_ …” he would have taken it a bit more seriously.

There’s a tinge of guilt. Maybe he’d humor this Yahaba Shigeru with a nod, because he’s trying so hard to get Kyoutani to do something, _anything_.

The bell rings, dull tones reflecting that it’s lunchtime.

Usually, Kyoutani would be making a beeline for the outside, the field where he sprawls out in the grass and the autumn sunshine to wolf down his lunch amongst the dandelions and grasshoppers, but unfortunately Yahaba has different plans for them. He’s face to face with the pesky president, who is blocking his exit by standing at the classroom doorway, thwarting his escape.

“You’re coming with me today.”

“Says who?” Kyoutani is puzzled, “I’m hungry. Going to eat lunch.” Surely that’s understandable.

Kyoutani moves to the door, near the gap where he could potentially sneak through. What he doesn’t expect is a hand to grab his arm, leading them down to the hallway. _It hurts_ , Kyoutani thinks, Yahaba’s iron fist grabbing his forearm and jerking him past other classrooms. They get some stares from other students, and they pass by his teammate and captain of the volleyball team, Watari, who raises his eyebrow upon seeing Kyoutani unwillingly dragged around. His sneakers squeak as he struggles to keep up with Yahaba’s brisk pace.

He can only stare at the back of Yahaba’s head, which is covered with hair the same tawny cinnamon as his eyes. Finally, Yahaba stops in front of a small door labelled “Student Council” and fishes out for a key with his left hand. The right hand still clutches Kyoutani’s in a fist. For prim and proper president, Yahaba Shigeru certainly has the death grip of a pro-wrestler. 

“Stop touching me.” 

Yahaba unlocks the door and only then does he let go of Kyoutani’s arm. He rubs it, glaring at Yahaba for being so touchy for no reason. It’s not like Kyoutani would have run away on him. Well, maybe that would have been a good idea, now that he thinks about it. 

“Why’d ya bring me here?”

Shutting the door behind him, Yahaba sits down, sighing as he unwraps his lunch. They’re in a rather tiny room, complete with a wooden table with worn wooden chairs, and a small couch behind it. There are a few cabinets in the back, one of which is not closed, stuck with the amount of paper files that it begs to be freed of. There’s a broom in the corner, which Yahaba definitely makes frequent use of, as the room is spick-and-span otherwise.

Plopping down in one of the wooden chairs, Yahaba says, “You haven’t been making any progress so far, so I’m trying something new. We have chemistry next class after lunch, take this time to do the homework. I’ll help you.” He points to the other chair, which Kyoutani makes no motion towards. 

“You don’t have to, you know.” He doesn’t even know what the assignment is.

“It’s apparently my job to,” Yahaba grits, “So I kind of do have to.” 

“Why do you not do your homework? I know that you can understand what the teacher is saying. When I ask you questions, you seem to know.”

As if to test this, Yahaba suddenly shoots out, “What’s the most electronegative atom?” His eyes flicker to Kyoutani, his chest is still, not breathing until he will respond.

“Fluorine?” The teacher might as well have beaten them with a bat to drive that into their heads. He doesn’t even know what Fluorine is, besides that it sounds like the stuff that is in his toothpaste.

“Yeah, see, you listen, this homework should be easy enough, let’s do it.” Yahaba rummages through his back and thrusts the hefty chemistry textbook on the table, pencil holding the page for the homework, presumably. Kyoutani’s chance at a peaceful lunch outdoors is long-gone.

“Fine. I’m eating my lunch first, though.”

“Alright.”

* * *

“Shigeru, smile!”

Shigeru shakes himself out of his own thoughts, focusing on the camera. To the right, his older brother towers, graduation cap and white coat on—full-fledged title of M.D. gracing the air with his educated accomplishment, while on the left, his younger brother sucks on a lollipop, taking it out with a slobbery plop to smile a toothy grin in the direction of his mother, who holds a smartphone, thumbing at the screen to capture the Yahaba boys.

Shigeru’s calves start to burn, since he’s been tippy toeing to appear taller for the photo. His brother is way too tall, and Yahaba hates looking small next to him. Finally, the shutter sounds stop. His brother’s posture relaxes as his mom brings the phone down and into her purse.

She is glowing: “Wow, my boys are all growing up so well! _Hiroki_ , no more candy today or you’re going to spoil the appetite for the big fancy dinner we have tonight!”

“My Akira is going to be a _doctor_ ,” _Yes, we all know_. He still has residency to go through, though. Another celebration for yet another milestone will be due. Another fancy dinner around the corner. Must be nice to pursue something so difficult that every accomplishment along the way is cause for celebration. But, he understands—if one thinks Yahaba Shigeru works hard, they’ve yet to see his brother, Akira. 

“Can you believe it Shigeru?” Yahaba Akira was born to be a doctor—a clever, calm, collected, pattern-seeking student that can draw connections between the most seemingly insignificant of facts. Above all, he possesses the grace and good nature to nurture patients. This is entirely deserved, entirely warranted, and entirely expected.

Shigeru says, “Yes, I can believe it.”

“Mom, I’ve been in med school for years now,” Akira jokes, “This isn’t a new concept.” Akira falls in step next to his mother, putting a hand on her shoulder. Shigeru is left to corral Hiroki, who was swiping at his mother’s purse with his sticky fingers, searching for a chocolate or a sour candy that she often uses to bribe him into silence. Hiroki hits Yahaba clumsily with his sugar-coated palms, so Yahaba dodges to avoid sullying his dress-shirt.

“I know, I know. I know you can do it all, but I’m always so surprised anyways.”

She pats his hand, smiling up at Akira. They’re a good mother-son pair. They look alike. Shigeru wonders if his hair is the same shade of caramel as theirs.

“I’m just _so_ proud.” Without a question, the picture of the Yahaba boys is going to grace her social media timelines with captions full of unnecessary emojis and hashtags that are way too long. _#MyBoys #AkiraMedSchoolGraduation #TimeFliesBy #XOXO._

His mother’s profile is full of photos of the three of them: Akira’s graduation, return from his first year at college, first girlfriend; Hiroki’s kindergarten play (he was Mountain #2), boy scout troop, birthday party with his cohort of equally as slobbery friends; and Yahaba—his first days of school, his debate tournament medals, student council induction with Yachi right beside him. Yahaba is not smiling genuinely in any of them. Thin-lipped smiles simply phantom grimaces.

* * *

Paparazzi shutter sounds fill little Kyoutani’s ears and hoots and hollers rumble the air around him.

Next to him, Kyoutani’s spirited father heartily claps, then whistles as the referee makes a call favoring the home team. For those who aren't even players, referees sure can draw the best and worst out of a crowd. The rehearsed hand-motions always look funny to Kyoutani, like they’re trying to guide a landing plane on the volleyball court.

Kyoutani Kentarou tilts his head upwards, to look up at the man next to him. His father reaches down, mussing Kyoutani’s fuzzy short hair, and points to the court, to the player next serving.

The player does a few rehearsal slaps, forcing the ball to the floor with light, but strong swats. Then, he throws the ball far ahead of him, far above him, and runs. The precision of a throw that travels so far away always boggles Kyoutani’s mind. He takes flight, and then the light catches the ball and the boom that breaks the sound barrier rips through Kyoutani’s ears. Somehow, the libero on the other side— _the libero is the one with the different colored jersey_ , he reminds himself—meets it with his toned arms, sending the once-powerful serve soaring into the air.

A shorter man with a calculating eye positions himself, fingers forming a triangle as he is ready to greet the ball upon its descent. The setter. After the ball finds its home in the cradle of his fingertips, the ball is just as soon in the air again, closer to the net.

And from out of nowhere, a snake, a slithering serpent of a player, Number 4, cocks back for the ball, and strikes, fangs bared.

It’s love at first sight. Kyoutani wouldn’t have liked putting it that way, but let’s call it what it is.

The ball lands squarely across the court in front of a stunned player on the other side of the net. Still descending from his jump, Number 4 throws a smirk as a challenge to the other team: _Now that’s a proper spike._ His nasty leer is wiped off his face by all the team players who rush up to him, tackling him with hugs and scrubbing his scalp with their knuckles. He drowns in a sea of invigorated and grateful teammates.

Looking down at his own tiny hands, Kyoutani hopes he will grow up to be able to hit like that. His clumsy stubs of fingers hardly look like they can be trained to be on par with the same reflex and speed.

“Satisfying spike, huh?”

Kyoutani can’t speak because there aren’t really any combination of words to describe what he’s feeling, so instead he nods his head, jaw bobbing up and down. He’s a witness to raw strength, incarnate.

Number 4 has a great game, loudly roaring each time he lands a spike to celebrate. Even when he’s stopped—which is rare—he shakes it off and he never falters in his next approach. Throughout the game, there are multiple moments where Kyoutani _knows_ that he’s watching something special, so his eyelids peel back as he memorizes every muscle flex and every move of this living legend before him.

And on their walk home from the stadium, Kyoutani holds his father’s hand, because it’s safer when they cross streets—and a nine-year-old figures it is still acceptable to hold his parents’ hands. The soft, warning beeps of the busy traffic are accoutrement to the bustling noises of the city street they cross.

The crosswalk turns on, a white stick figure illuminated. Their feet toe the painted lines of the crosswalk.

“Kentarou, what’s my number one goal for you?”

With no hesitation, “To be strong.” The motto might as well be Kyoutani’s bedtime story. His father recites it to him every night. At this point, maybe Kyoutani’s heard it more than his own name.

“Yes, you remember. But I don’t care how you do it. I don’t care if it’s in volleyball. It can be anything.”

Kyoutani looks towards his father, who is staring straight ahead, at the sidewalk home. He always figured that his dad had told him this mantra with the idea of strength in the physical sense. Volleyball was their shared passion, so it was only natural for him to make this assumption. They both love volleyball above most things in their life. Though Kyoutani’s life is fairly new, almost tallying to a single decade, he knows this to be true.

“What do you mean?” What else is there to be strong in? Strong just means muscle, right? He’d have to grow quite some more to reach his own ideations of strong.

“Exactly what I said. Be strong. If you’re not, you can’t pick yourself up when you need to be strong the most. Promise me you’ll remember that, too, okay?”

Nervously, Kyoutani feels a strange foreboding here. He looks down at his navy-blue Velcro shoes, following each step with his eyes. What is there that Kyoutani needs to be ready for?

Not one to elaborate, Kyoutani’s father swings their hands between them as they continue their walk home. If anything, maybe his dad wasn’t trying to get him ready for something in particular. Maybe he just wants Kyoutani to be ready for any difficulty. To try and get an answer to one of his questions, he looks up at his dad, once again. There’s no answer. So, he says:

“Okay, Dad.” 

They reach their house, Kyoutani enjoying the crunch of the Velcro he rips to take off his tiny shoes, while his father hangs up his coat on the rack. It’s Kyoutani’s bedtime, which means his father will recline on the couch to wait for his mother to have their daily late-night conversations, whispered hushes that don’t reach Kyoutani’s room. Since his dad works long hours, this is the only time they get alone together. Occasionally, there’s a stifled giggle from his mother, or a cheeky chuckle from his father that Kyoutani will pick up on, before he drifts to sleep.

Still fussing with his own jacket, Little Kentarou is oblivious to the sharp wince his father experiences while trying to sit down at his normal place on the couch. Glancing apprehensively to see if Kyoutani has noticed, his father breathes a controlled sigh of relief to see him still fussing with the bothersome buttons on his puffy jacket. They’ll get a zippered one next time.

Love. Nine-year-old Kyoutani doesn’t get it, but that’s okay, because no nine-year-old does. Adults talk about boring things until the dead of the night, but it’s all so interesting to them. Hopefully they never run out of things to talk about. With love, apparently, that isn’t supposed to happen. With the good kind of love, at least. 

Kyoutani’s pretty sure that the good kind is something his mother and father share.

* * *

“Good morning everybody!!!”

The voice ringing through the intercom into the classroom comes from the human embodiment of someone who will expect it to be a great morning, someone who expects the day will be just as great for everybody else. Because they usually have amazing days. Suave, light-hearted, and a touch of slapstick confidence.

“Well, why _wouldn’t_ it be good? The day has just begun. Oikawa Tooru here! But you already knew that.”

He can already see the little peace sign that Oikawa throws up left and right to his peers— _fans_ —in the hallway and can similarly imagine Oikawa putting up that same gesture in the front-office, perhaps offering it up to the secretary with a presumptuous wink. 

There’s a rush of sleepiness that overtakes Yahaba Shigeru, who immediately straightens his posture to wake himself up. It’s only the first class of the day, but he can’t help all the sleep he missed out on from the past weekend. The few hours he had managed to catch were not restful, stress and anticipation waking him up every half-hour. He’ll catch up on the rest next weekend, a lie he tells himself.

He’s fighting a yawn that’s desperately prying open his jaw when he hears: “First up: the Seijoh Debate Team placed first at the fifty-fourth Miyagi Prefecture Debate Tournament on Saturday. Please acknowledge your classmates for their hard work.” Now he’s wide awake. Yahaba sits quietly, tremors of hopeful anticipation opening his formerly sleepy lids above their normal height _. Maybe, just maybe_ —

“Most notably, second-years Nakamura Akako and Yahaba Shigeru won a gold medal apiece!”

_No way._

The immediate high of the acknowledgement, by Oikawa nonetheless, lifts Yahaba taller in his seat than he’s ever sat, modestly (he thinks) sitting still. Yahaba clears his throat not-so-subtly, closing his eyes and feeling (imagining, possibly) the wondrous stares from his classmates on the back of his neck. _Yes, I am Yahaba Shigeru_ , he thinks. 

It’s rare for Yahaba to achieve a goal he’s genuinely proud of, and the piece he had prepared for this tournament had been one that he was fond of, not minding the thousands of bedroom-rehearsals done beforehand as much as he did for others. The Original Oratory will be and always will be his territory, he had chosen long ago as his battlefield for its perceived difficulty and freedom to speak on any topic he could choose. Knowing that this is the lame extent of his fifteen-seconds of fame, he lets himself enjoy it, reward for all the times his voice has gone hoarse from practicing and all the bottles of water he’s gulped down to provide relief for his throat. There are a few scattered claps for him from some of his second-year class.

He basks, but only for a second: “ _Wow_ , never get into an argument with one of them!”

The podium he had stood on for that brief moment he had mistaken for the ground. Possibly a six-foot booby-trap in the grass. Oikawa Tooru, like most of the human population, reduces debate to legitimized yelling matches—but there’s so much more to it—and Oikawa Tooru will never understand anything that isn’t volleyball. It’s a harmless joke to everyone else. Harmless, so he’ll get away with it. Yahaba files this one in the back of his brain. His scheming is interrupted by the natural progression of the morning announcements.

“And now: the new gym renovations for the basketball-volleyball courts are _finally_ done!”

 _Why is this even news?_ Hooray for a less smelly gym. Still the same gym. There is really no need for some wood to be repolished or frayed hoops to be replaced when they’re just going to be beaten down inevitably.

“To celebrate, there will be a grand re-opening during lunch held by the volleyball team and yours truly. Free snacks, first-come first-serve!”

And as though Oikawa has just announced the Second Coming, there are euphoric cheers resounding from his entire class and excited jabs left and right from classmate to classmate, promising each other to race each other to the gym when the lunch bell sounds. Much livelier than for any other announcement that morning. This must be how the Sun feels during a solar eclipse—the Sun, whose light makes the eclipse effect so strange, is underappreciated for the light it reliably provides with every rise.

The cheers—much livelier than for his fifteen-seconds of fame. It hadn’t even been fifteen—ten, _but who’s counting? Who is counting, besides Yahaba?_

Hungry high school students are the one constant in this life.

Free food always reigns, controlling the masses since the dawn of time. So, what does that make the volleyball team, distributor of edible gold? 

“Well, that’s all for now. Rule the day, Aoba Johsai!” 

* * *

Kyoutani would like to tell Mr. President that there’s a grain of white rice stuck to the corner of his mouth. Actually, that’s a big fat lie. He would _not_ like to tell Mr. President that there’s a grain of white rice stuck right above where his smile would end—how Kyoutani knows what Yahaba’s smile looks like, he doesn’t know, because Yahaba never smiles. The grain of rice is on the cheek closer to Kyoutani, sticking with more hold and more dedication than Kyoutani can find to pay attention to the chemistry assignment he’s supposed to be doing. Sadly, he and Yahaba had both scarfed down their lunches, quickly forcing him to face the inevitable chemistry assignment.

The miniscule grain of rice is the same size as his desire to stare at Lewis structures; regrettably, it is the only thing keeping him amused at the moment, because Mr. President always looks so smug and regal that Kyoutani might just mention it after he’s done. Maybe he should get on with the assignment. Yahaba’s looking down at one of his own—the only difference is that Yahaba’s getting ahead on _next week_ ’s homework.

Whatever. This problem’s been giving him issue anyways. He pokes at Yahaba with his eraser.

Stabbing the textbook with the eraser next, “Why is this one different?” Yahaba doesn’t seem to mind that Kyoutani has worked through about half of the eraser stub on the pencil he has borrowed from him. The lined paper he is writing on has also been provided by Yahaba. Yahaba’s round, muted-mushroom brown eyes dart to the problem in question, which features a little S with graphite dots circling around it.

“Oh. That’s Sulfur. Geez, do you have to press so hard on the page?” He’s referencing the bullet-hole electrons Kyoutani has made around each atom. It’s not Kyoutani’s fault that the pencil is hard to write with, so he has to press down extra hard. 

Kyoutani sends a less-than-friendly look at Yahaba. He knows what S stands for, Yahaba should be smart enough to know why he is confused. The dot counts Kyoutani has been keeping track of in his head are not lining up, and they don’t interact with the F’s around them to give a clean answer the way the rest of the textbook problems have been answered with.

Yahaba turns his gaze to Kyoutani, “Sulfur can have an expanded octet. So it can have more than eight electrons. In this case, six single bonds.” _An exception_. Kyoutani doesn’t like when teachers use those to test whether or not he stared at the book for long enough. 

Not wanting to have to bother himself and Yahaba by asking later, he asks, “Do any of the others do stuff like that?”

“Yeah. Phosphorus, silicon, chlorine too.” Kyoutani repeats in those in his head to cement it. He’s already forgotten the third one—oh wait, _Chlorine_.

A barely-there comment: “That’s annoying. Doesn’t follow the rules.”

Another one, but from Mr. President: “Neither do you, Kyoutani.”

Kyoutani whips his head to Yahaba. The audacity of the exemplar student is off-putting. Enough to not realize that he’s wearing a shocked face until Yahaba starts laughing. _Oh, so that’s what his smile looks like_. His white teeth are small and his tongue draws back with each laugh, obviously unafraid of Kyoutani and his ineffective glare. The cinnamon eyes are shut closed.

The grain of rice dips into his dimple. It’s at home there.

Yahaba is not apologetic, but his laugh dies down at the same time Kyoutani stops glaring and starts finishing the last problem of the set. 

Lazily rambling on at this point, Yahaba continues, “But actually, they’re not really going against nature or anything—they’re just big enough and the conditions are right—we can talk about that when you’re done. They’re just different. They follow their own rules.”

 _Just like you, Kyoutani_.

That part is unspoken, but Yahaba thinks it and Kyoutani hears it in his mind. In Yahaba’s voice. The one on the intercom. _Annoying_. However, that’s pretty accurate. He doesn’t mind that assessment of his behavior: _following his own rules_. Rather, it’s fitting in a way that Kyoutani likes.

He messily circles his answer to question twenty, then hands the worn pencil back to Yahaba, who stuffs it into his green pencil case, which he chucks at his backpack near the door. Yahaba’s an unsettling combination of complete control, but utter brute force and carelessness. It’s in the way Yahaba seems to be conscious of every little move he makes when all eyes are on him, but when it’s just them, he seems to transform into an ungraceful teenage boy—which they both are. 

Turning back to Kyoutani, Yahaba starts to explain why those annoying atoms operate under their own rules, something to do with having more protons and being able to handle the extra negative charge. Kyoutani hadn’t actually cared, about the reason for it, but he figures he will listen since Yahaba will probably explain it more understandably than the teacher does.

He sure uses a heck-of-a-lot-of hand motions, hands forming fists to represent proton cores and little pinky on the other hand to represent an electron— _This isn’t accurate, since electrons are like ‘clouds’,_ Yahaba finishes.

 _Clouds?_ Whatever. Yahaba can tell him about that another time.

 _Another time?_ What a joke. They’re not doing this again. The lunch bell rings. That was boring, but he gets it. The rice is still in his dimple. Kyoutani stares at it one last time before getting up to go to class with Yahaba.

In the hallway: “You know, that went a lot better than I thought it would.” Yahaba stands too close to Kyoutani for his taste, so he takes a larger step forward. 

Lunging forward with the next step, “Did you think I was stupid?” He says it loud enough so Yahaba can hear, which he would have been able to anyways, since he’s scrambling to catch up to Kyoutani. 

“Yeah, you _look_ stupid.”

Again, Kyoutani is astonished at the repeated offense. Who is Yahaba Shigeru, and why does he not match any of Kyoutani’s preconceived notions about him? Teacher’s pet. Top of the class. Debate club leader. Class president. Now, pain in the ass. Rice dimple. Cinnamon head.

Kyoutani doesn’t raise his voice, but says what’s on his mind, “You’re ruder than you look.” 

Yahaba puts his hands on his hips in triumphant response, proud that he has shaken Kyoutani, apparently. Then his attitude shifts and so does the air around them, atmosphere more serious than it had just been.

“You obviously know most of what’s going on. Why don’t you try?” The question of the hour. Kyoutani hates when the teachers ask, so he’s equally as bothered when Yahaba, mushroom-eyes, asks as well.

Muscle memory for his lips at this point. He responds, “I’m going to be a professional volleyball player. I’m working hard in that. No point to work hard in school, then.”

“Humor me for a bit,” Yahaba points at his own chest, “I have to study really hard to remember all those things I just taught you, which you seem to memorize on the spot, if you let yourself. It’s just a little bit infuriating that you don’t take more advantage of it.” This is a weird direction, Kyoutani’s never been told he’s been smart in such a roundabout way. People don’t think he’s smart. He isn’t, he just is listening when people assume that he’s not. It’s pretty easy assumption to make when one appears disagreeable.

Kyoutani Kentarou decides to actually be disagreeable, maybe to shake Yahaba off, maybe just for kicks.

“You have rice on your face.”

Yahaba smacks his face, “What— _where_?” Getting ahold of himself, he thumbs at his mouth and feels the gooey stick of the grain of rice on his finger, which he then glares at, realizing it must have been there the entire lunch, now privy to the information that Kyoutani has held onto the entire lunch period.

Inside, Kyoutani gloats with the long-awaited satisfaction of having the upper hand against Yahaba, for once.

With a devilish grin, Yahaba’s eyes suddenly flash with an idea. This can’t be good. Gut instinct tells Kyoutani to run, so he starts toward the classroom door, a safe point a mere twenty meters away. But he feels Yahaba’s left hand on his shoulder before he can lift his foot, and with lightning-fast speed—maybe it’s not that fast, maybe Kyoutani is just _shocked_ —Yahaba stuffs his right thumb into Kyoutani’s aghast mouth, quickly scraping the grain of rice on his own tongue.

It’s salty, presumably from Yahaba’s finger, and Kyoutani stands with his tongue slightly out, rice smack in the middle of it, in a dilemma because he doesn’t want to spit indoors, especially when the teacher is _opening the door to the classroom, right now_. She’s looking in their direction. 

So, he chooses the worst, only option available: he shuts his jaw, swallows, grimacing as the taste of Yahaba’s finger travels down with the salty saliva.

He whispers a hiss at Yahaba, choking not on the salt, but rather on the fact that he has lost: “You fucking _jackass!”_

The jackass beams back, prouder than a king as he heads into the classroom, turning his diabolic grin into a sweet smile to greet the chemistry teacher. No one would believe Kyoutani about this, ever.

In his defeat, Kyoutani takes his seat next to said jackass, who does not seem to care one bit that Kyoutani sits right next to him, within a close enough distance for Kyoutani to (A) punch him really hard, (B) strangle him, (C) pinch him when the teacher’s not looking, or (D) all of the above. 

He doesn’t choose to do any of those things. Yahaba Shigeru gets on his nerves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the flashbacks. There will be more. So I guess I'm not that sorry. 
> 
> I am sorry about the rice scene though, I even grossed myself out with that one.


	3. Friday, September 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yahaba lets his anger get the best of him. It gets through to Kyoutani, probably.

Yahaba Shigeru must have a lot on his mind.

There are moments Kyoutani catches him looking out of the windows, not with the glassy eyes of a daydream. A routine of sorts—Yahaba seems to let himself fall into these spells of thought for about five minutes—then suddenly he will snap out of it and continue with writing down whatever the teacher says as though he has been engaged the entire time. The faintest hint of eyebags gives him a swollen appearance of someone who’s very allergic to mornings or paints him as a worn-out student who has too many worries for someone who’s barely eighteen. 

Yahaba Shigeru must be a lonely new soul.

New souls, Kyoutani is told by his mother, are often disappointed because they have high standards for the world around them. When the world falls short of these lofty expectations, the new souls indignantly learn what it’s like to be a human, scowling and kicking as they might. And Yahaba Shigeru has the highest standards of them all not only for himself, but for others. And that’s what makes him a new soul—the believing in others aspect. Only new souls will believe in the good faith of others.

Old souls approach the world with a familiar attitude, pleasantly surprised by blessings and taking them in stride. They don’t expect anything from anyone.

Though Yahaba might seem a skeptic, a sarcastic, and a sadist through Kyoutani’s eyes, he sees through this because he knows the biting words that come out of his mouth have been sharpened and forged over time. The varying inconsistencies in Yahaba’s attitudes are sedimentary rock for the soul—Kyoutani can tell which fragments of his speech are from a time when he was more naïve, when happy jests or his rambling way of talking slip out; he can tell what the newer ones are because they’re usually more jaded and caustic jabs at the universe. This is only from the brief lunches they share. Yahaba talks a lot.

Yahaba Shigeru confuses Kyoutani.

As the third-year president, Yahaba should be popular and well-acquainted with his classmates. Before they had done their homework together, Kyoutani remembers that Yahaba would eat alone in the empty classroom during lunch. It would have been hard to notice, but Yahaba sits in the front, so Kyoutani always passed him on the way out.

The almost brutish and confident way that Yahaba tries to mess with Kyoutani should grate and gnash on his every last shred of wit. No one approaches Kyoutani, no one treats Kyoutani like he is a second-rate delinquent that isn’t as scary as he lets on. Yahaba does, though. That’s not the confusing part—the confusing part is that Kyoutani should be ripping on Yahaba, chewing him out or maybe even a punch when Yahaba gets all up in Kyoutani’s face, but he never does. The two should be the equivalent of putting water on an oil fire. Except it’s not like that.

Kyoutani’s going to figure it out, he’s not actively trying to, but he’s watching. Don’t worry. 

* * *

The girl in front of him is a small, nervous one. She’s dressed in the fluffiest winter coat and her cheeks are flushed a deep red from the biting cold of the winter winds. Hiding behind her mother’s legs, she peers at Yahaba with an apprehensive appraisal.

Yahaba has a small snowball in his mittened hand, one that he had been saving to throw at Akira when he steps in the house. It’s melting in his palm. That plan would have to be reserved for another day. He flips over his hand and lets the melty ice fall to the ground.

His mother, the social butterfly starts off the conversation, “Hello, are you the new neighbors?”

The tall, slender woman with expensive-looking makeup and a powerful aura turns her attention to the Yahabas. Yahaba would not be able to tell that the mother-daughter duo were related if they were not currently glued together as a set. 

“Why yes! We just moved around the block a week ago. Sorry, this snowy weather has made us slower to get adjusted, so we haven’t been around to introduce ourselves to everyone just yet!”

“Welcome! I’m Yahaba Yua, and this is my son, Yahaba Shigeru. He’s six years old. And who is this?”

His mother gestures to the little girl behind their neighbor, who stiffens at the newfound attention.

“This my daughter, Hitoka—she’s only a year younger than your son! I am Yachi Madoka.”

Ah yes, the foolproof plan parents seem to have that if their children are about the same age, that they will instantly become friends. It’s the fifth law of thermodynamics. When one parent has a child, the other parent’s child is your new friend, whether you like it or not.

Nudging her son forward, “Say hi, Shigeru!” Shigeru’s snow boots leave imprints on the slush. He raises his hand in a wave, which Yachi Hitoka flinches at. He’s never met such a flighty spirit.

He offers, “Hello.”

She squeaks out, “H-hello!”

They’re definitely not going to get along.

Definitely not.

In fact, it would have been really odd for Hitoka and Shigeru to be left to their own devices in the Yahaba household, bonding over one of Shigeru’s Lego sets. Bonding is not the correct word for Hitoka having accidentally stepping on one of the pieces and bawling, while Shigeru had tried to distract her from the sharp pain by waving his half-complete creation in front of her—but there’s not really another word for it.

It might have also been strange to see them learn to ride bicycles together—Hitoka on her purple one, a green one for Shigeru—though Hitoka would need the support of the training wheel for a bit longer than Shigeru had needed. Nonetheless, Yahaba would challenge her to bicycle races to the convenience store, where they would blow their entire week’s allowance on ice cream for Shigeru and origami paper for Hitoka.

Hitoka is used to losing, so Shigeru will say every time: “You have an extra wheel, so it should be easier!”

“That is _not_ how it works!” Her spirits are renewed, a gullible adversary every single time.

On their first day of fifth grade, Shigeru stops at Hitoka’s front door to walk together. When she comes out, waving with a smile, Shigeru thinks this is what it must feel like to have a friend.

They spend the entire walk figuring out if they will call themselves the Habachi Duo or the Shitoka Set. Both are incredibly silly and they know it. They settle on Hitoka’s final proposal, as _YaYaha_ , because it sounds a funny laugh or beginning of a tentative yell, which they repeat with giggles and wheezing laughter all the way until the school gates are visible.

* * *

“Yahaba-san.”

The teacher shuffles by his desk, handing Yahaba his quiz back. A simple laboratory quiz based on their past homework. No red marks except a circled score at the top, denoting full points for Yahaba. He puts it in his notebook. This was expected. What Yahaba wants to know, is what Kyoutani had gotten.

He hadn’t meant to help Kyoutani with his homework that day, behind the scenes. He doesn’t care if Kyoutani gets suspended, gets held back. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. But it’s been aggravating that none of his ploys before then had worked, and he hates the possibility that Kyoutani’s shortcomings might be considered his own, now. He can’t have his project fall short. 

Hence, lunchtime homework help. Now a daily occurrence. He’s fairly certain Kyoutani has aced this quiz, given that it’s easy and that they did the homework together for it—Kyoutani’s actually pretty good at chemistry—

“ _Kyoutani-san_ …”

Miyamoto-sensei hands back Kyoutani’s paper face-down, a bad sign. Her attempt at saving Kyoutani’s face is definitely not quick enough because Yahaba can see that the paper is a pockmarked mess in the last half.

 _Had he even got a single question correct in part two?_ Kyoutani lifts the paper and stares at it, eyebrow furrowing, lost in thought. _Maybe he’s also wondering how he can do so badly, for once._

This might be better than what Kyoutani would normally achieve on a quiz, but all the fruits of Yahaba’s own labor— _this is how good his help is? As if._ None of it is his own fault, but he’s enraged all the same. 

Shockingly, Kyoutani raises his hand, “Miyamoto-sensei—”

“Kyoutani-san, if you want to discuss your grade, see me after school.”

Miyamoto-sensei is the strictest teacher of them all—her tests aren’t unfair, but here domineering personality and unbridled relish for penalizing anybody who turns in late work, makes a mistake, or isn’t paying attention in class earn her the title of the least-liked third-year teacher. She reclaims this title today.

In his plastic chair, Yahaba stews.

To get Kyoutani ready for the quiz, they had crammed during lunch earlier two days ago, Yahaba flipping through flashcards and throwing a barrage of terms and rules at Kyoutani, who wordlessly ingested them all. Maybe he should have quizzed him more thoroughly—why is Yahaba angrier than Kyoutani at this? _Calm down._

Except he can’t, because Kyoutani’s foot has started tapping. Does Kyoutani do that every time Yahaba is irritated? He swears that Kyoutani does it on purpose, knows the perfect times to do it, Yahaba is ten seconds away from exploding, a bomb of festering embers.

He had sent Kyoutani, his best and only soldier, out to battle, and Kyoutani had been killed, MIA, blood splattered as red marks on his quiz paper. They’re going to lose the war.

 _I don’t care about the volleyball team, I don’t care if he’s is held back, I don’t care if he fails chemistry, and I don’t care about Kyoutani Kentarou, period_.

The foot-tapping picks back up again, faster. With each tap Yahaba’s shoulders constrict.

This is just a joke to Kyoutani. _I do care, I must care because I am fucking furious!_

His lead pencil snaps, Yahaba having been stabbing it into his notebook unconsciously. The broken piece ricochets and hits him in the eye, so Yahaba curses under his breath, drawing a concerned look from Kyoutani, tearing his eyes away from the quiz paper in his hand. Yahaba looks away, not wanting him to see the watery eye and mistake it for something else, so he turns to the window and shuts his eyes, letting the exasperated tears wash out the graphite.

* * *

An iron grip on Kyoutani’s shirt. He’s clutching it so hard that there’s rug-burn on his fingers, but he doesn’t feel it one bit over the blood pumping pure fury through his arms. Yahaba’s arm is not his own, it’s a powerful entity that acts on its own, detached from any sort of consciousness he possesses. For now, he lets it do as it wishes, since it seems to be doing an effective job.

Kyoutani’s beady, upturned eyes stare back. His hand reaches to Yahaba’s own, obviously a warning to let go.

If Kyoutani has learned anything, anything at all from Yahaba, he wishes that he could get through Kyoutani’s skull that Yahaba Shigeru shouldn’t be messed with.

They’re at the lockers, passing period to hurry up to English, but somehow Yahaba can’t wait for after school to get this off his chest.

So instead, he takes his merciless grip and uses it to shove Kyoutani backwards into the locker, body thudding as Kyoutani’s back hits the metal, hollow rattles of steel locks and textbooks protesting the impact. Kyoutani’s body is dense, lean, sinewy muscle not landing softly anywhere. Yahaba blows to push the bangs out of his eyes. He’s staring at the ground, because he’s going to spit in Kyoutani’s face with what he’s going to say next:

“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT STUPID, SO WHY DO YOU ACT LIKE IT?”

A few passerby avoid looking at the two as they make their way towards class. Thankfully, most of his sheltered private-school classmates will not engage, conflict-avoidant souls born and raised. 

Kyoutani warns, “Let go.” He’s being rather generous to Yahaba, but Yahaba is not letting go.

Yahaba peers up at Kyoutani’s face: “No.” The upturned eyes search Yahaba’s face, and for the first time, Yahaba feels a little uncomfortable in this situation because Kyoutani is looking at him like he’s crazy. Then, Kyoutani opens his mouth to take a stab at an explanation for himself. Kyoutani explaining himself is something new. Yahaba doesn’t let himself show any reaction. 

Put simply, “I bubbled off on one question. All my answers shifted off one.”

Yahaba brings the fist with a mind of its own closer to his face, bringing Kyoutani with it, who stumbles forward at Yahaba’s sudden strength. They’re an inch apart, Kyoutani’s nose flaring at Yahaba, if he wasn’t mad before, he is now. The excuse makes Yahaba seethe.

“LIKE I’D BELIEVE THAT.”

For a second, he catches a flash of disbelief from Kyoutani that Yahaba doesn’t believe him. As if Kyoutani can’t understand why Yahaba wouldn’t take that for the truth, Yahaba has betrayed him. It makes him fleetingly question if that’s why Kyoutani raised his hand during class. Even if that were the case, Miyamoto-sensei wouldn’t give him the points back. So, there’s no time for forgiveness.

“EVEN SO, YOU HAVE NO ROOM FOR DUMBASS MISTAKES.”

The rich get richer, the poorer stay poor. The smart become smarter, the stupider fall even more behind. It’s the rule of nature. There’s nothing new about that to Yahaba, which is why he’s firing on full jets every second.

Yahaba asks about a million more questions Kyoutani won’t answer, “You’re doing this on purpose? Just because it’s funny? Like that little leg jiggle thing you do? To piss me off? Get back at me?”

Kyoutani, tense but unmoving in his grip, merely shifts, probably to prevent a lock from digging into his vertebrae, so Yahaba pushes him back further into it, to make him more uncomfortable. Because Yahaba hasn’t been doing enough himself to feel satisfied. Kyoutani doesn’t squirm. He’s waiting for Yahaba to finish whatever one-sided screaming match this is. There’s no hate in his gaze, only defiance, which fires up Yahaba even more.

 _How to break this horse_ , he wonders.

“Well—I’m done. With this.” That’s untrue, because he’s not letting go. Yahaba shakes his tangled fist, wrinkling Kyoutani’s shirt with his clammy sweat and his words.

Another tactic, “You know, you’re tracking dirt through the house for everybody else around you. You’re going to have to stay behind another year, which— _believe it or not_ —is a headache for everybody.” Watanabe-sensei in the office and the pile of ineffective teachers that Kyoutani has dodged cross his mind.

Not that this gets a rise out of Kyoutani, but he does seem to open his narrow eyes a bit wider. He slacks in Yahaba’s grip, barely noticeable, a tiny concession notwithstanding. 

A tumbleweed of terrible conclusions emerges from Yahaba’s breath, “And you’re going to get suspended, which means you’re tracking dirt through your entire team. You can’t even give your captain a good senior year?” Kyoutani bristles at the mention of volleyball. He continues on this train, since it’s resonating with Kyoutani. They seem to speak the same language now.

“Because you don’t realize that being fucking selfish is selfish because you hurt others more than yourself. All volleyball players are so selfish. Having people pick up messes around them instead of doing it themselves.” There’s no need for him to include Oikawa Tooru in this. It doesn’t matter—Kyoutani won’t know what this means.

“You can stay at this school until you die, for all I care.” Yahaba cares a lot, this is hypocrisy. He just doesn’t know why he cares.

This is why he says, “ _If you fail, I’ll never forgive you_.” 

One final time, Yahaba slams Kyoutani into the lockers, apologizing only in his head for the way Kyoutani winces when one of the metal nubs grinds into his back.

Letting go of the shirt, and of his short-lived stint as lion-tamer of Kyoutani Kentarou, he sprints to English class, pretending like Kyoutani won’t have to sit right next to him the entire time.

Kyoutani doesn’t show up to English class. There never was another empty plastic chair that has been stared at with such frustration. Yahaba makes sure of it.

* * *

There’s a lot of internal debate about whether or not to hit the call button.

On the one hand, there’s no one else he wants to talk about it with. But on the other hand, he’s not sure he wants to talk about this at all. Kyoutani sits down on the grass in a pair of athletic shorts and a threadbare tank top. His pajamas, but he’s outside after dinner, because he doesn’t want anyone in the house to hear the conversation on the potential phone-call he’s going to be having. 

Staring at the road in front of his house, Kyoutani heaves a sigh and watches the neighborhood cars pass to and fro. The gray sky backdrop is unappealing and unentertaining, but it doesn’t matter since most of it is covered by apartment complexes and some industrial work buildings. Kyoutani wishes that he didn’t have to live somewhere where the sky is only blue, gray, or a dusty sandy orange.

He could always just hang up the phone if it gets to be too much. That seems like a safe escape.

He pushes the call button and it rings about five times, and now Kyoutani is faced with the possibility that this person might not pick up, and might call back later—which is even worse because by then Kyoutani will not be in the mood to talk about this. Kyoutani’s about to hit the end call button and send a text, but then the call is picked up. He lifts the phone to his ear. 

Of Kyoutani’s many traits that make him, well, Kyoutani, waiting for the other person to speak first on the phone is one of them. Even if he was the one to call. The recipient on the other end knows this, yet still sounds very confused.

Iwaizumi answers after a pause, “The hell?! Kentarou—is this really you?” The only person outside of family who Kyoutani lets call him Kentarou.

“Yeah.”

“You… never call?” It’s true, Kyoutani can’t blame him. Kyoutani doesn’t call anybody besides his mother. That doesn’t even happen that often. “I couldn’t believe the caller ID.”

Another voice sounds through on the other end: “Who ya talkin’ to?—It’s Kentarou.” There’s a rustle, from Oikawa scooching closer to hear what Kyoutani is going to say.

“Kyouken-chan!—Be quiet, ‘Kawa, I want to hear him.”

Great, another listener. His spirited ex-captain, at that.

Kyoutani doesn’t want to interrupt any… date of theirs.

The whole team noted they stood too close during… well, everything. Rough slaps and kicks to the asses just shitty excuses for contact. Releases of all the pent-up frustrations of not yet naming something that’s should exist. Always seated next to each other on the bus rides home from games, Iwaizumi drooling on Oikawa’s shoulder, Oikawa not minding one bit. The way they turn to look at each other before anyone else after they score a point, together. Their fighting words to each other aren’t sincere in meaning—Kyoutani thinks they might have the good kind of love, too.

Graduation had been their official “reveal” to the rest of the team, an announcement to the team under the mulberry tree at Seijoh—Oikawa proudly proclaiming their relationship while Iwaizumi flustered, kicking the ground with his feet and mumbling an acknowledgement that it was true. Clearly, it was not news to anyone who knew the two.

“Is this a bad time?” He would have preferred Oikawa to not be listening in, but at the same time, it doesn’t really matter since they’re both thousands of miles away, they might as well be imaginary friends.

Iwaizumi insists to keep Kyoutani on the line, “No, ‘Kawa and I are just hanging out in my dorm. Nothing much. It’s a weekday. University isn’t a party every day, y’know.” Kyoutani had never said it was.

Ignoring that, Kyoutani gets to business, “I called because I don’t know what to do.” If anyone was going to get him out of a tough spot, it would be the one who could best him at arm wrestling. Someone strong. Like Iwaizumi. The strongest person he knew—well, they’re not around for him to ask.

Immediately, Iwaizumi tenses up, Kyoutani can feel it through his voice, “What’s wrong? Do I need to call Watari? Did you get into a fight with the team?” The last question isn’t a far cry from what could happen, his track record with the rest of the volleyball team isn’t necessarily shiny and unchipped. Scratches, skips, and blips. They’d been alright in the end though.

“No… not with the team. Somebody else.” Someone far scarier than the whole team. Someone possibly scarier than Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi is all pokey exterior and soft inside. Oikawa, on the other hand, is the opposite. Possibly why they work. “They were trying to help, I think.” 

“Oh…— _Kyouken_ , what’s _really_ the deal here? You get into scuffles all the time.” Oikawa’s right. Nothing gets past Oikawa Tooru.

Kyoutani says simply, “I need to get my grades up… or I don’t really know what’s going on, but if I don’t, I get kicked off the team and I don’t graduate.” It’s suddenly dawning on him that things might be worse than he’s perceiving. Verbalizing it himself makes it real, finally. If he’s kicked off, held back, he’s going to have to take a longer road to volleyball professionally. _Man_ , he doesn’t even care if he plays professionally, but at least if he could play on a legitimate team, he could focus on it one hundred percent. “I fucked up.”

There’s a low whistle on the other end.

“My _god,_ what has _happened_ since we’ve left, Kyouken!?—Yeah, I agree. This is _not_ a great situation. You’re going to need to un-fuck it up right now…” Iwaizumi has always had a great way with words.

“Start… by apologizing to whoever was helping you. If you mean it, maybe they’ll help you again and you won’t fight with them again, _right?_ ” Kyoutani shudders at the thought of having to face Yahaba to say sorry, but currently there’s no alternative that he can think of. He does need help, and he’s not going to get it from anyone else.

“Iwa-chan, look atchu being all nice to Kyouken, why don’t you ever give me advice like that?—‘Cause you never listen, ‘Kawa.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Can he really? Kyoutani had just gone home after Yahaba’s outburst, not quite knowing what to do with himself. He hadn’t known that something as insignificant to him as his grades could be impacting other people. The way Yahaba could barely keep himself together when yelling at Kyoutani had shaken him. In his seventeen years of living, no one has screamed at Kyoutani in such a way where he feels hollow after the ordeal. The vacuum in his chest had stayed with him through his shower and dinner, which was new for Kyoutani since he had expected food to fill the unsettling emptiness. 

“Sounds like a plan, then. And… uh… Kentarou, you know that you can always text or call, not just when things are this bad, y’know. Maybe we could help earlier next time.”

“I know that.”

That’s a lie. He hadn’t known that. Hopefully, there’s not another reason for him to call like this one, but for some reason it makes Kyoutani feel a tad bit better.

Correctly sensing that Kyoutani is done with talking, Iwaizumi wraps up the call for them.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it then, bye Kentarou.”

“Bye, Kyouken!”

“Bye.” 


	4. Monday, September 17 & a day sometime after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yachi and Yahaba discuss the age old question: "What's love?"
> 
> Kyoutani shows up at school after the weekend. That's Yahaba's problem to tackle.

Yahaba’s too busy pretending to be busy, by drafting an organized list of all the tasks he has to finish today:

  1. Delegate tasks for Spring Festival Dance
  2. Finalize lineup for performers at the dance
  3. Collect festival fund approval sheets from front office
  4. Ask Nakano-sensei for the list of teacher volunteers to help
  5. Study for English exam: memorize chapter 8 grammar
  6. …



His notebook is filled with several other lists like this, lists are his therapy. The act of making a list makes him feel like an important person, which he is. If you didn’t write it down, _did you even do it?_

Seijoh could not have a more organized, thorough leader.

Any other day recently, the last task of his to-do’s would be something along the lines of:

  * Review integration by parts with tamago
  * Ask the tamago if he’s done with the history questions
  * Do mole-balancing worksheet with tamago at lunchtime



Tamago, Yahaba’s favorite sushi—he knows it isn’t technically sushi, but Yahaba loves eggs—would be exactly what Kyoutani’s hair would look like if he let the hair between the two bands in his yellow fuzz grow black as well. The absurd dye-job had always intrigued him, and the one lunch period where Yahaba had first made an association between tamago and Kyoutani’s head had given him so much joy.

Of course, he’ll never divulge this nickname to Kyoutani, who would eat him alive at the discovery, but it gave him small satisfaction for the tiny time he had believed he could truly make a change in the delinquent’s life. The irony of a brooding, lone-wolf being compared to the sweetest dessert-sushi on the menu is a secret amusement Yahaba had enjoyed. Yahaba probably won’t be able to stomach tamago ever again, now that there’s an uneasy feeling in his stomach whenever he thinks of the fight he’s had with Kyoutani. 

Another list of Yahaba’s, one titled ‘My Pet Peeves’, headlines: 1. Giving up.

It’s no wonder that Yahaba feels extremely uncomfortable with himself after their spat, knowing that walking away after yelling, admitting defeat in a way, is only a fancy, showy way to give up. There’s no excuse for this time except for Yahaba’s anger and a seething desperation that all his help could still not push Kyoutani to where he needed to be.

Regardless, a result is a result. Results cannot be changed, modified. Yahaba stares up from his list at the whiteboard, class is about to start. As the bell rings, Kyoutani Kentarou shuffles in, tamago-head bobbing as he makes his way towards his spot next to Yahaba. He avoids eye contact with Yahaba, or Yahaba avoids eye contact with him—or they’re both doing it. The bell rings and the sleepy rustle of students comes to a halt as they quiet down for the teacher to start speaking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he continues to watch Kyoutani, who brings out a wrinkled paper—a paper… that looks a lot like the history study guide. A paper that has answers filled out, scribbled on with heavy-handed pencil, but finished, nonetheless.

Yahaba has to leave his seat to go do the morning announcements, but he wants to stay, wants to confirm that when Sasaki-sensei says, “ _Okay class, hand in your study guides,”_ that it’s not a figment of imagination that Kyoutani might just put his crumpled, dirty, wrinkled, _but complete_ one on the pile with all the others.

He should get going, he really should—or else the clock’s going to hit 8:05 and he won’t be at the front-office in time—so, Yahaba slides out of his chair, making special effort to avoid Kyoutani’s tapping foot on the way out. He sneaks out and immediately crouches when he’s out of the door, peeping his head over to look inside, while hopping in the direction of the office.

If anyone had seen him, there’d be no rational explanation for the side-bunny-hop he’s doing while peeking into the history classroom, but he doesn’t care, because he sees Kyoutani pass in his crumpled paper to Sasaki-sensei. After that, Yahaba springs up and continues on his way to the office, whistling while he walks.

* * *

Stammering, Yahaba asks, “…Are you _sure?_ You’re only twelve!”

“How are you sure of yourself, either? There’s no difference. You’re only _thirteen!”_

They swoop on the tandem swing-set, Yachi reaching the peak on her way up, while Yahaba is reaching his on the way back. Eyeing each other, they pass each other on opposite trajectories, metal chains clinking under the strain of young adolescents who are just about to be too old for swinging on the playground.

Long ago, Yachi Hitoka had broken out of her shell around Yahaba, and the contrast between night and day of Yachi around other people and Yachi around him was almost dizzying. For those she does not know well, Yachi is self-conscious, nervous, and overly-apologetic for happenings that are certainly not her fault. To Yahaba, she shows no mercy. The high pitch of her voice is the same, but the tones are entirely different.

Around Yahaba, she’s a younger sister.

That’s probably why she’d be unable to ever return his feelings. Feelings which he’s just confessed to her. The brown sugar snack she was opening had been fumbled to the floor in surprise, thankfully Yahaba had caught it on its way down. He had foreseen that she would be taken aback, but he had not foreseen the unbearably uncomfortable atmosphere between them. 

He thinks that (formerly) comfortable peace he feels around Yachi paired with the long-time affections and protectiveness he feels towards her can only be described as young love. At least, that’s what his classmates at school teasingly say to him after he returns from spending his recesses with her.

Broaching the subject with, _I think I could have a crush on you_ , is probably not the smoothest way to proclaim your tentative feelings, but it definitely isn’t the worst. Thirteen is the awkward-est age. He doesn’t know anything, doesn’t know better.

But he definitely hadn’t expected her to say, _I’m sorry… I can’t ever feel that way about you,_ with such a clear finality _._ He wasn’t all that bad, was he? But then, she had given a reason, a reason that Yahaba never would have seen coming, but that was most likely because he had never noticed, _I don’t like boys in that way_.

After all, there was no way he would have predicted this, they talk about other things usually. Romance had never been a topic when there was much else to discuss at lunch, through full mouths of egg sandwiches and apple slices.

“So, does that mean there’s a girl you have a crush on right now?”

Suddenly, Yachi becomes someone others might recognize: “Uh—uh—um…”

Her face flushes a bright pink, and her legs stop swinging as she puts her feet down in the woodchips to slow down. Yahaba does too. His sneakers become dusty with the fibers, yet he barely worries about the possibility of a splinter, because Yachi has kept a _secret_ from him, when they had sworn on year three of their friendship to never keep anything from each other. This is a violation of the oldest creed.

“I can’t believe—how could you not tell me?!”

Yachi looks down at her feet, obviously she had wanted to tell Yahaba, but this isn’t a secret you can tell off the cuff. Not like _I have a mole on my left buttcheek_ or _Hiroki still sleeps with my mom when he has nightmares_. Those are embarrassing but not damning in any fashion. Nothing that strikes at the core of one’s being. 

So, Yahaba lets go of the hurt betrayal he feels and instead asks a different question, one that he’s equally just as curious about: “You don’t have to tell me who it is… but can you tell me how you knew?”

Relieved that Yahaba hasn’t asked who it is, Yachi looks up and lets out a nervous giggle. She bashfully nudges a pile of woodchips in the shape of a tiny, pokey pyramid. A faraway look gives away her daydream, and she recounts:

“I—I don’t think there was a certain moment that I knew, you know?”

The metallic smell of the swing chains makes it way to Yahaba’s nostrils as he takes his hands from the chains and puts them in his lap, ready to listen. The plastic seat digs into his jeans, reminding him that he’ll soon be too uncomfortably large to sit in swings made for grade schoolers.

“There’s this girl in my class, and the way she speaks and listens to me makes me feel heard.”

Yahaba cranks open his jaw in protest, _doesn’t he listen to her?_ But the fact that his mouth is open means that he isn’t doing it as well as he should, maybe he had always been listening for himself. So, he commands it back shut without having said anything.

She continues, glowing all the while, “And, when she laughs, it’s so musical. She complimented my sketches and pointed out every little detail that I had intentionally put—she can read me, without trying…”

Can Yachi read him without trying? Yes, but it’s only because they’ve grown up together. Not because she’s trying to actively learn every dark corner of his soul, every facet that isn’t shown to the light. She’s been there to see it all, not necessarily to ask for it. He decides that it’s not the same as what she’s describing.

“Of course, she’s pretty, but a lot of girls are pretty,” undoubtedly envisioning the angelic form of her crush in front of her as she speaks. Yachi’s pretty. Toeing the line between adorable and especially cute, about to become a young woman.

“She’s beautiful, and—and—oh my goodness—she makes me want to _do things_ that I’ve never thought of doing before, drawing pictures of _her_ , maybe going on dates with her,” at the thought of that, Yachi flushes a maroon shade of the same shade as her mom’s favorite lipstick.

“…And she makes me want to stand up for myself and my feelings. Because the world is a new place with her, if I can do those things with her.”

The world has always been the same, between him and Yachi, at least. Their walks home are routine exercise, their chattering at lunch is the norm, and texting each other goofy pictures under their blankets at home is the equivalent of checking off a day in the calendar. The world is the same, albeit a thousand times better for Yahaba, because of Yachi Hitoka. Life doesn’t have a rose-colored tint that Yachi might be looking through right now, though. Maybe they’re just two different kinds of romantics. 

“I never thought that one person could control the highs and lows of my day.”

For someone who goes through a wide range of emotions when someone just looks at her the wrong way, the notion of Yachi Hitoka understanding that her emotions are even more volatile around the person of her affections is surprising to Yahaba. He places his hands inside his pockets, but then takes them out when he remembers that they smell like metal. He doesn’t want his pockets to smell like that, too. He stops, because he doesn’t want Yachi to think that he’s restlessly bored. He’s not.

“You know, when she’s by my side, I’m flying high above anything and everything. If I see her talking to someone else, I get so uncontrollably jealous, which is terrible—but I can’t help myself, I think that’s how I knew that it was a crush. When I could no longer control what I was feeling that well. Do you think people who fall in love just stop working the way they used to?” 

He twiddles his thumbs in his lap, “Hm, maybe. Probably.”

Yahaba has never felt this way for anybody before, certainly not Yachi. He’s considerably annoyed when she doesn’t show up to school sometimes, weak immune system making her prone to the seasonal colds. Describing it as crushed would be melodramatic—inconvenienced, bored, and wistful are more fitting.

Yahaba carefully feels each cautious word emerge from the tip of his tongue as he admits, “I don’t think I’d know,” admitting that what he feels for Yachi is definitely not a crush. He’s been confused. 

“Forget that I said anything, Yachi.” He doesn’t mean it with any bitter spite.

Yachi bites her lip, “I’m sorry, Shigeru.”

“Don’t be. I want a new YaYaha rule.”

Extending his hand from his side, Yahaba guides it toward Yachi. He offers his pinky finger, to which Yachi moves to link her own around his. Creaking, the swingset protests their movement as they make their solemn promise.

“Sure.”

“We’re going to tell each other about crushes from now on. It doesn’t have to be everything. Just so that if you’re sad or something I know that there’s someone out there that made a very big mistake in hurting you. I’ll pick a fight with every pretty, beautiful girl I see to make sure I get revenge for you.”

At the thought of Yahaba threateningly glaring at any girl he sees within Yachi’s proximity, she lets out one of her little musical giggles, tossing her head back. He smirks and puffs his chest in pride, a successful recovery. This felt right, and it is as it should be. Yachi is back to normal, and so is he.

She scolds teasingly, “Are you predicting heartbreak for me before it even happens?”

“No, I’m just being prepared.”

“Think of the good, Yahaba,” she lifts her head toward the menacing moon, peeking out in the periwinkle sky much earlier than it should be. Sometimes the moon appears without waiting for the sun to go away, like it does today. Hiding in wait, overly prepared for the nighttime. “I’m believing in it too. That’s what happens when you’re in love.”

Yahaba sticks out his tongue to feign disgust, “Look at you, talking about love. You went from _crush_ to _love_.”

“I mean, it’s love to me. Maybe I’ll think I was silly later, but I won’t blame myself, that’s for sure.”

Still not looking at him, her feet swing against the top of the woodchips as she stares at the moon. She’s in a place faraway, thinking about her crush, maybe wondering if she’ll ever be able to hold her hand the way she wants to. He hopes for her sake, that she’s able to, even if it ends and ultimately labels this as a “silly” first love, like she says it might. One day he’ll know what she’s talking about.

* * *

He hears footsteps behind him.

“Why are you following me?”

He had hoped to get a brief refuge from Kyoutani during lunch, an escape to collect his thoughts and decipher this new behavior of his. 

Kyoutani shrugs, further tending to the internal fire of bewildering frustration Yahaba’s experiencing.

Class after class, Kyoutani had handed in all his homework, silently listened—no foot tapping—to lectures, and even scribbled down a note or two in the questionable remains of his spiral notebook. Amazingly, Kyoutani had written down words, the same words that teachers were saying, Kyoutani was _being a student!_

Yahaba hadn’t even tried to control his questioning stares, he’s ready to know if there’s been an alien abduction and somewhere in a UFO far, far away, the _real_ Kyoutani is gagged and grumbling at shapeshifting extraterrestrials who follow a live hologram-feed of whoever was sitting next to Yahaba in class the whole day.

_Isn’t this exactly what everybody wanted?_

There’s no glory in it, because Yahaba doesn’t know what he’s done— _if_ he’s done anything—to cause this change. Something tells him it’s not just the fact that he had screamed at Kyoutani and shoved him around too much for his liking, so it’s not something he can take credit for.

Not that he would have taken credit for it, because this was not supposed to have happened, Kyoutani is supposed to be a lost cause. Yet Shigeru seems to have lost his own cause, for whatever this is.

The wheels turn in his head as he subconsciously makes his way to the student council room, mindboggling Kyoutani in tow.

Inside the room, Yahaba sets down his bag in his chair and goes over to the couch to sit down, not sure why Kyoutani is there. He’s taking too long to say something, so he decides to pretend like their little spat never happened and reminds himself that Kyoutani is likely there to do what they had been doing before, working on last-minute assignments together to get Kyoutani up to speed.

Searching his brain for his mental catalog of tasks, Yahaba musters out, “…Okay, so there’s an English essay due today…” wondering how they’re going to cram writing a whole essay into one lunch. He stops when he sees Kyoutani opening his mouth to say something and immediately shuts up.

“I know. I did it… It’s probably not great.”

 _But you did it,_ Yahaba thinks, wonderstruck.

A pin could drop and be heard miles away.

Kyoutani doing homework, at _home?_ He had been turning in assignments all day, but an essay by Kyoutani is a notion that Yahaba can’t seem to materialize in his mind. If Kyoutani can finish an essay over a single weekend, then Yahaba’s job is done. The teachers should call the press, Yahaba has orchestrated the impossible feat of reigning in Kyoutani Kentarou. 

It sounds so simple and basic, but when something happens that you never thought would happen, you never believe it when it actually does. _Well shit_ , Yahaba hadn’t expected to get this far, and he’s pretty sure Kyoutani had not foreseen this either. An impasse.

Incredulously, and not aware of what he’s saying at all, Yahaba states, “Looks like you don’t need me anymore. You know, you don’t have to be here if you don’t have to do homework. I’m going to just do my own thing.”

_What… what is my own thing?_

_Oh right_ , he could get started on writing the thank you cards for the parent volunteers who had brought homemade pastries for the library bake-sale. Because of them, student council had been able to replace some of the ratty stickers on the older, yellow books in addition to getting an entire new shelf of textbooks for the third-years. Though they are a private school, Yahaba knows it is good to get parents involved and show support for the school, so once in a while requests are made of the parent association.

On behalf of the third-year class, it was his duty as president to thank the parents for their kind contributions. He plops a pile of light-blue, blank cards on the table and sits down in front of them. Kyoutani stares from the doorway. He uncaps a pen and prepares himself to hear the sound of Kyoutani’s footsteps walking away, but they never reach his ears.

Instead, Kyoutani comes to the couch too, and sits next to Yahaba. As far away as possible, riding up against the other arm of the sofa, but next to Yahaba nonetheless.

“Do you… need help?”

Yahaba’s eyes widen, “What’s this? _Who_ are you?” Pretending, Yahaba hangs his jaw open dramatically in theatrics, but inside his heart is doing backflips.

Kyoutani sticks out his bottom lip, “Shut up. Or I’m leaving.”

“Okay—okay—okay.”

He writes out a card as an example and gives it to Kyoutani to copy as he gets started on the next one. Kyoutani asks for a pen, which Yahaba chucks at him, and then gets to writing. Out of the corner of his eye, Yahaba catches a glimpse of the tip of Kyoutani’s tongue sticking out in concentrated effort as he looks back and forth between the words he is writing and the ones he is given to write from. The two stack up their pile of cards as they complete each card, Yahaba’s neat and ruler-lined writing alternating with Kyoutani’s scribble-laden, bleeding kanji.

The parents who receive the cards won’t know that if they receive a messy, scratchy, scribbled letter of thanks, that it had been written with entirely more heartfelt, painstaking effort than if they receive a neat one. Yahaba grins at that thought. 

* * *

They’re sitting outside, dewy grass wetting the seats their pants. Even still, it’s much better than being inside.

The stray dandelion seeds and pollen weigh down the air and give it a thicker consistency. These fuzzy remnants make their way into Yahaba’s nose, causing him to sneeze. His sneeze wracks his whole body, getting Kyoutani to jump in response. Yahaba’s a windstorm in a teacup shop—but the beautiful grass field around them doesn’t mind the turbulence of his hay fever allergies. Then, Yahaba rubs his nose with the back of his head, sniffling and clearing his whole throat.

Kyoutani munches on his ham sandwich, not acknowledging the impossible-to-ignore person next to him.

Sometime between Yahaba prattling on about the importance of the surface tension in sugary green grapes, one of which he has offered to Kyoutani—which Kyoutani hadn’t refused—because he’s always hungry, their knees had touched. Neither of them had mentioned anything about it. Kyoutani’s certainly not going to.

Now, midway through their meals, their knees are still pressed up against each other, sticky and warm. It's strangely... humid... today, morning rain leaving behind thick reminders that it had passed through Miyagi. 

Kyoutani’s not going to move his leg away either, because he’s not going to back down. This isn’t a competition, but it feels like losing if he does. Yahaba doesn’t say anything and keeps his leg planted as well, legs still in their crisscross formation as he shovels a few more grapes into his mouth.

Yahaba’s knee pushes into his a little bit more, as he leans towards Kyoutani with a mischievous lilt in his voice.

Mouth full of grapes, Yahaba mumbles, “You know, you’re not so bad.”

“You’re worse than I thought.” The response elicited is a toothy, snarky grin.

He nudges Yahaba’s knee, continuing to take another bite from his sandwich, reaching the crust with his teeth.

Usually, by now, Kyoutani would be laying down in the grass staring up at the sky to zone out until the bell would ring. Of course, Yahaba has been a disruption in all facets of his life, now this one, so Kyoutani had eaten at a slower pace—interrupted by Yahaba’s questions and teases. He decides that Yahaba could use some outdoor air once in a while, the mushroom brown hair looks a warmer tone when they’re out from under the fluorescent ceiling lights of the school.

Kyoutani startles when he feels Yahaba poke at his chest, pointing to the embroidery on his shirt that reads **_Seijoh VBC_**. It’s their practice shirt, a mint-aqua, seafoam green color that clashes with his bleached hair. He wears it since it is light on his skin and thin to the touch. 

“Why do you like volleyball so much?”

For a second, Kyoutani thinks about his dad. Thinks about the snake spiker. Mostly his dad, and the yellow-blue striped ball he had received for his eighth birthday, the very thing that had started it all. He thinks about being strong and how volleyball is the only way that he knows how to do that, only way how he knows how to be strong in this short life of his so far. That’s all too much to say and Kyoutani wouldn’t know how to say it.

So, he shrugs, “’S fun. I like doing things that look cool. Spiking is cool.” These aren’t lies either.

Yahaba lifts an eyebrow as he unpeels his banana. He seems to enjoy fruits. “Is it really so simple?”

“Yeah.” It isn’t that simple, but oftentimes people like to overcomplicate things. Yahaba is definitely one of those people, Kyoutani thinks. “Should it not be?”

“Hm. I suppose not.”

The boy next to him analyzes Kyoutani’s face, causing him to feel that strange feeling he’s been feeling recently. It’s been nagging at him. First, Kyoutani had thought it was uncomfortableness, because it was supposed to be the feeling of being extra-conscious of himself around Yahaba, whose discriminating gaze demanded action and results, which Kyoutani hadn’t thought he could provide. However, it can’t be uncomfortableness because Kyoutani has had more than enough time to get used to it after these few months. It pops up occasionally in class when Yahaba answers a question or something stupid like that.

They’re not even on bad terms anymore. The feeling only grows.

It’s a swell at his sternum, a tension that starts at his throat that twists into a tightness in his stomach.

“You think a lot. What’s going on in there? I don’t think it’s just empty.”

Kyoutani jolts, sending the remaining tidbit of his beloved crust into the grass. He was going to eat that…

The all-too-new-but-now-very-familiar sensation returns when Kyoutani hears the telltale gasps that are the beginning of Yahaba’s infernal laugh. The sound is a foreign one, this variety of Yahaba-laughter is a new one for Kyoutani, who mentally gives it a rating of nine out of ten on breathlessness.

One could argue that it’s a cackle because cackles are evil in root and Yahaba is the spawn of Satan himself. Kyoutani doesn’t mean it, but his sandwich crust lies in the grass somewhere, probably already spotted by ants. This isn’t a laughing matter. Huffing, Kyoutani turns to Yahaba, who is well on his way to forgetting how to breathe as his fit of laugh continues, shaking both his and Kyoutani’s legs. He regrets looking at Yahaba, because the abnormal tightness increases ten-fold.

Yahaba’s hand clutches at his own shirt, as though steadying himself through his laughter. He’s the kind of person who can’t stop his giggles once they’re started. He’s also the type to laugh a lot more whenever he is tired, which Kyoutani can see from the way Yahaba’s eye bags have been more pronounced the past week. Everything is ten times funnier when Yahaba is exhausted, much to Kyoutani’s unamusement.

Though he wants to plug his ears at the sound of the laughter—it’s so sharp and loud and clear and sounds into the middle of his chest—Kyoutani can’t turn away from Yahaba as he continues to thrash in amusement.

The flushed cheeks from the bout of laughter especially cause the tension in Kyoutani’s throat to get him to gulp, in an effort to dispel it. His jaw only tightens, screwing shut. Without any other control over his body, Kyoutani gets his eyes to squeeze shut.

Yahaba mistakes this for Kyoutani’s frustration at the fallen breadcrust and stifles his giggles unsuccessfully, clamping his hand over his mouth but still shaking in laughter all the while.

Smirking curiously, Yahaba straightens up, “Sorry—sorry. Here, take this. You’re so dramatic.” He looks at Kyoutani, intrigued.

Yahaba stuffs his half-eaten banana in front of Kyoutani as a truce, which he grimaces at in denial. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man down, man down. Kyoutani is falling, and he doesn't even know it.


	5. A Week in Their Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than normal. I also just wanted to say that this fic is going to be a huge experiment with the concept of time. It's also going to be a fic about the beginning of a relationship, rather than the actual relationship, so keep that in mind. 
> 
> Anyways, this Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday may all be in the same week or may all be in different weeks before Nationals, I'll leave that up to you to decide.

_We won._ Kyoutani thinks about the college team they had practiced against that afternoon. Aoba Johsai is still a strong team, even if they had lost Oikawa and Iwaizumi this year. The first-year libero has given them an unexpected defensive edge and it’s a miracle they also came upon a new setter, who still has a long way to go in terms of shaping up to be anything like Oikawa, but he will do for now.

They just need to keep it together when they go against Inarizaki and the whole lot at Nationals. Despite that, winning against a college team had put everyone in high spirits.

“Those college boys gave us a pretty hard time, huh? Especially the setter, he’s a tricky one.”

Shrugging, Kyoutani admits, “They were good.”

Watari spins the volleyball with his right hand, trying to get it to stay balanced on the pad of his index finger in spite of the unpredictable lurches of the team’s bus. He’s unsuccessful when the bus starts making a jerky left turn, forcing Kyoutani off-balance and into Watari’s shoulder, knocking the ball into Watari’s lap.

After Kyoutani has scooted back to his original position, Watari turns around and shoots a quick _Settle down, just because we won doesn’t mean I can’t make you do dive laps when we get back_ to the rowdy first-years in the back of the bus who yell unnecessarily every time the bus lurches.

Kunimi and Kindaichi are knocked out in the row behind them, Kindaichi with his cheek pressed up against the window and Kunimi sitting with his arms crossed, swaying with each new swell of sleep that overtakes him. They’ve improved a lot since last year, especially after the loss to Karasuno, Kindaichi quietly bristling in silent determination to get better and Kunimi even performing a bit earlier in the games than they had been used to seeing him do so.

“I’ll say,” Watari seems to psychoanalyze the ball, giving it a few more spins, “I think we’re ready for Nationals next month. If we can beat college teams now, we will stand a good chance at Nationals, too.”

College gyms were bigger and shinier, made Kyoutani feel smaller even though he knows he’s the same height as some of the players on the actual college team. He wonders if the college players are used to being in that big, airy stadium all the time where each spike and each squeak of their shoes is echoed.

Remembering that they had only barely won the third set, Kyoutani knows that prevailing at Nationals is still going to be a tough feat.

“Don’t get too excited.”

“Fine, fine.”

Watari stares out the window and Kyoutani is ready to head to sleep too, zipping up his track jacket all the way for the added warmth. Just as he is about to close his eyes, the coach turns from row in front of them and calls out to Kyoutani. 

“Kyoutani, the teachers are all saying how much you’ve improved with your schoolwork. ‘Like night and day,’ they say.”

People are making such a big deal. It really isn’t. He’s still the same at volleyball and still talks and walks the same way. 

Watari turns to him, incredulous, “Whoa, Kyoutani!”

“I just do my homework now. Same as everyone else.”

Watari nudges him, “How’d someone get that through to ya that we couldn’t, huh!?” He gives Kyoutani a knowing smirk, and Kyoutani remembers that Watari has definitely seen him with Yahaba at school. 

To play clueless, he lets out a noncommittal, “Huh?”

The coach waves his hand, “I don’t care _how_ you’re doing it Kyoutani, just _keep_ doing it.”

“Yes, coach.”

Having pointed out what he had wanted to point out, Coach Nobuteru settles into his chair and closes his eyes himself. He was annoying like that sometimes, bringing stuff up only to dismiss it, but to let you know that he knows what’s going on. As long as Kyoutani isn’t going to be suspended from the team anytime soon, they’re all fine.

The bus jolts them awake one final time when it pulls into the Seijoh parking lot near the volleyball gym. Coach Mizoguchi turns from the driver’s seat to yell, _EVERYBODY UP!_

There’s a groan from Kindaichi, whose cheek on the glass has left an imprint that he lazily wipes at with his sleeve before standing up. Kyoutani’s roused enough too, to see the dim surroundings of the inside of the bus. He had slept well and waits for Watari to exit so they can get out.

The night air helps wake Kyoutani up and draw out the remaining grogginess as he steps out of the bus. The second and first-years wave and exchange quick goodbyes to go their separate ways and walk home, since it’s about dinnertime. Everyone’s in a sleepy rush to get to somewhere familiar, since they had been outside of Miyagi for a bit.

Watari and Kyoutani watch the underclassmen leave to make sure everyone’s well on their way home and then turn to each other.

“I’ll send you the tape from our practice game after I shower tonight. Text me anything that sticks out to you.”

Watari likes to have Kyoutani watch their tapes and point out cracks in their offense’s form, since he’s better at evaluating the jumps and technique than he is. Watari is good at drafting up the plays with the coach for the team as a whole, whereas he relies on his vice-captain for pointing out the individual, unique flaws for each person that they need to work on.

“See ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Night.”

Watari smiles at Kyoutani, a sight that he’s gotten used to after becoming vice-captain. Then, he turns with his hands shoved in his pockets and Kyoutani’s staring at Watari’s back, the shoulders of the captain broad but sagged, a tiny sign of fatigue from the long day.

Kyoutani’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be vice-captain, but there’s no other third-year to do it and he thinks the title is just a formality because everybody knows that Watari is the one who holds the team together. Watari’s he one who holds meetings, comes up with the practices, and shakes the underclassmen out of their pre-game nerves.

Somehow, _Kentarou, you’re going to be a great vice-captain, you’ll grow into it,_ was all it took to get Kyoutani to nod his head in passive acceptance _._

And right after, _Kyouken will be good for disciplining the first years. He just has to give them one broody look and they’ll be on the floor doing punishment pushups. Watari’ll be good cop; Kyoutani, bad cop._

To be clear, Kyoutani is vice-captain only for Iwaizumi, not for Oikawa. Though as usual, Oikawa gets his way as well and before he knows it Watari is captain and Kyoutani is right there next to him on the court, Number 2 in jersey and in team role. Hopefully not in ability.

Lost in thought as to what makes _him_ the bad cop, Kyoutani stares at the pavement of the sidewalk, as he passes by the front of the school to head out. He’s not very good at seeing himself how other people do.

Deciding that it’s useless to think about, Kyoutani lifts his head to focus on getting home.

Except he sees a tiny light from a single window on the third floor of the main school building. The third floor houses the third-year classes.

Strangely, the window is small but the light streaming from it is a harsh yellow, commanding Kyoutani’s stare and holding it until his eyes burn a bit. He closes his eyelids and he can still see the outline of that tiny window. Purple and black fuzz in his cornea.

Who is at school at this hour? It can’t be…

* * *

…Scratch that, it _can_ be. It is.

Kyoutani’s hand is on the doorknob to the student council room, the only room in the entire school that houses a human being. Said human being is inside, head reeling as he turns from his notebook to his laptop, then back to his notebook, so absorbed that he hadn’t heard Kyoutani open the door.

“Why are you still here?”

“Oh, it’s you!”

Yahaba looks up from his place on the worn sofa, hair sticking out this way and that as though he has bunched it in his fist from all the work he’s been fussing through. The way he turns to Kyoutani suggests that he’s on his last legs, drowsy lids only lifted a tad in surprise at Kyoutani’s arrival.

Kyoutani coughs, “What are you doing?”

“Funny you should ask. It’s technically for you.”

“Huh?”

Knowing Yahaba’s about to launch into one of his stories, Kyoutani walks over and sits down next to him, leaving space between them because he doesn’t want their legs touching. That could be dangerous.

“The school principal messed up…”

Yahaba rolls his eyes, the whites giving Kyoutani the creeps. He chuckles a bit when he sees Kyoutani grimacing.

“Basically, he ordered the wrong cones for the student cheer section. And now he has no funds for the student spirit club, and so I was trying to figure out something to do since your tournament is next month and it seems like the entire school wants to go and support.” 

His words are venomous, but his tone is not. It’s resigned and exasperated, because this is entirely a first world problem. He knows Yahaba would rather deal with real problems, not ones that are generated out of people’s incompetence… Well, maybe that wasn’t so true. Kyoutani had been a problem Yahaba had to deal with, and Kyoutani was entirely his own fault.

Remembering the cone-shaped noisemakers Aoba Johsai’s audience uses, he thought that they were reusable. Even if they weren’t, didn’t they only have to make noise?

“How did he order the wrong ones? Aren’t they all just noisy?”

“I know, right?” Yahaba’s laugh sounds, the giggly, I’m-on-no-sleep variety—he’s definitely losing it.

“He ordered _orange_ ones. Can you believe him? He’s so stupid, we’re like the exact opposite color. It’d look ridiculous. His big fingers probably clicked the wrong button. But he definitely was excited because he wanted to do it all himself.” Kyoutani feels himself smirking at the image Yahaba draws up, most likely because that is exactly what must have happened.

“That sucks. Kinda funny though.”

“It does suck.” Yahaba pouts, and then catches Kyoutani’s little smirk and brightens, “But, it is funny, huh?” Kyoutani’s throat tightens, _not again_ , and Yahaba turns away, strangely avoiding eye contact in this moment. Just as well for Kyoutani, who wouldn’t have been able to handle it, for whatever reason. It’s probably because Yahaba’s just loopy and tired and looking at him makes Kyoutani feel weird, too. Probably. 

“Well, what’re you gonna do then?”

“I dunno. Was thinking about just telling him that there’s nothing he can do except have the crowd look like they’re waving little traffic cones at Nationals. The best revenge, yaknow? I might actually come to a volleyball game for once…” His voice trails to nothing.

Then Yahaba sits up, turning to Kyoutani, but not really looking at him. Kyoutani decides to do the same and stares at Yahaba’s eyebrow, caramel-colored and thin. 

“But I don’t know… You’re on the team and… it seemed a little… mean? And…”

The atmosphere’s a little off, and Yahaba squirms as though he’s said something he wants to take back.

“ _And what?_ If you come to a volleyball tournament, it should be to watch a game.”

The idea of Yahaba going to a volleyball game is an interesting one. Maybe he would stop trash talking the volleyball team if he saw them play, get over that strange thing he has against their team. Not that they were anything revolutionary, but the team isn’t bad at all. Maybe good enough to win Nationals, if they do their best.

Yahaba gives him a false glare, and then a smile. “Oh, c’mon.”

Ignoring him, Kyoutani asks, “Do you always stay this late?”

“Why? You afraid I live in this room and don’t come out of it?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

He doesn’t ever think he’s seen Yahaba walk home after school, which makes sense now that he knows he’s cooped up here, doing work until who knows when.

Joking, Yahaba sticks out his tongue, “Well, I do!”

He continues, “It’s the first time in a while there’s been somebody else here this late, Yach—”

Yahaba cuts himself off, either from something he doesn’t want to talk about, or because he’s about to yawn—or maybe both. The yawn is dramatically large, and his mouth swallows up his entire face, crinkling his eyes and nose at the same time. Kyoutani is once again struck at how crude Yahaba is when he doesn’t care about how he appears to others.

Then, when Yahaba’s done with his jaw-breaking yawn, he rubs at his eye with a strange gentleness and it takes everything in Kyoutani to not reach out and smooth down the messy mushroom hair that’s sticking out this way and that. Suddenly that messy brown mop is leaning back on the couch, dangerously close to Kyoutani’s shoulder.

“Can you wake me up in five minutes? I’m just gonna—”

Kyoutani knows Yahaba’s definitely not going to wake up if he sleeps.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“Nope! Thanks, Kyoutani.”

Ignoring Kyoutani’s protests, Yahaba sinks further into the couch and promptly starts sleeping, because Kyoutani can see it in the way the rise and fall of his chest slows to a steady tempo, and how one by one each of his limbs relaxes. Glancing up at the clock, Kyoutani makes note that it is seven thirty-four and he’ll shake Yahaba awake at seven thirty-nine, or else Yahaba will make fun of him for not knowing how to count, or something.

Yahaba’s legs are slack, his arms rest at his sides, and his tense neck is now slackening…

Relaxing enough to fall onto Kyoutani’s unsuspecting shoulder. Kyoutani gives a good thought to shrug his shoulder to shake Yahaba off, but that would wake him up and he had seemed exhausted—it’s only seven thirty-six and that’s not fair.

Breathing shallowly, Kyoutani knows that the tense feeling in his chest is going to return if something doesn’t happen soon, because Yahaba’s hair is tickling Kyoutani’s neck and his cheek is smushed up against Kyoutani’s collarbone under his shirt. He hisses when he feels Yahaba’s hair push up against his neck, sticking to his skin and impossible to dislodge. Yahaba’s arm is pressed up against his own, soft and cool compared to the burning, bristling skin Kyoutani thinks he has.

It’s now that Kyoutani feels uncomfortable in his own skin, remembering how sweaty he is from the day’s events. All the sweat is dried by now, but he sweats a lot during games, and he is sure that he smells salty, at least a little bit. Thinking about sweat makes Kyoutani flush even more, which isn’t helping his situation when Yahaba’s cheek is the equivalent of a miniature furnace.

* * *

“Kentarou, boy. It’s always good to get a good sweat on.”

The two are in their backyard in the summer sun, shiny foreheads glistening, and the collars of their gray shirts darkened with the trails of perspiration that pool at the bottom of their necks.

His dad bumps a small set to Kyoutani, who braces for it by folding his arms and meeting it on its descent. Though his legs are still pretty short, they’ve gotten faster, and he steps forward to greet the ball, which his dad has undoubtedly set a little too short so Kyoutani will have to work to get to it.

Smiling when Kyoutani hits it back, his dad bumps it high into the air.

“Sweat is how you know you worked hard. You know, if you ever come back from a volleyball game and you’re not sweaty—I’m going to assume you didn’t play.”

Kyoutani bats it back with a set.

Indignant at the thought his father doesn’t think he’s working hard, he complains, “Dad, I _am_ sweaty.”

Chuckling, his dad teases, “Maybe a light mist goin’ on right now. Eventually you’re going to want to look like you’ve gone through a shower with your clothes on.”

“That’s gross.”

Kyoutani catches the ball.

Before they can continue, Kyoutani’s mother calls to them while opening the screen door to the house, bringing out some water for them. She walks over to give Kyoutani a glass of water, then makes her way over to her husband and hands him a glass.

His father draws her close until their waists are touching, and she yelps in false disgust, giggling as he nuzzles his wife with his nose. Kyoutani looks away in embarrassment as he takes a generous sip of his water.

“Be proud, son! Anyone who is important won’t mind a little sweat.”

* * *

Hopefully Yahaba doesn’t mind a little sweat.

Or a lot of it. Kyoutani had toweled most of it off after the game but he’s recently been living up to his dad’s expectations, soaking his shirt through at times where the damp athletic material clings to his back. To take his mind off of where he is and who he is with and the strange sensations that have been clouding his senses, Kyoutani had watched the video Watari had sent him, as promised, on mute, so that Yahaba wasn’t disturbed.

Yahaba stirs, this time it’s different from the occasional twitch that Kyoutani had felt from him. Kyoutani pauses the video on his phone, their new pinch server frozen in mid jump. Disoriented, Yahaba blinks open his eyes and lifts his head from Kyoutani’s shoulder, glancing up to the clock.

“W—what the hell!? It’s been an hour!” It’s eight thirty, give or take.

Kyoutani answers, “You seemed tired.”

“I said five minutes!”

“I tried waking you up, so this is your fault.”

It’s true, at least kind of. At seven thirty-nine, Kyoutani had waved a hand in front of Yahaba’s slumbering face, then poked him on the face, to which Yahaba had given absolutely no response. It seemed wrong to take away sleep from someone who obviously needed it. 

Yahaba fires back, “Well you didn’t try very hard.” Hitting the nail on the head.

Kyoutani might think Yahaba is actually mad then catches the customary glint in his eye and knows that he is anything but. Yahaba shuts the lid to his laptop and flips his notebook closed, putting both into his overly stuffed backpack. The zipper groans as Yahaba tries to shimmy his bag shut. Kyoutani puts a steady hand on the bag to help it close and Yahaba grunts out a thanks with a final pull of the zipper.

“Let’s go home?” 

* * *

_Monday, Yahaba residence, 10:22pm_

On Yahaba’s bookshelf next to his debate placard is an old digital photo, in a wooden frame that says, “Yahaba’s Fourteenth” in his mother’s handwriting. It’s a picture of him and Yachi at the kitchen table, laughing their heads off. Yahaba has chocolate frosting all over his face and Yachi is flushed pink with laughter, having just smashed a double-fudge cupcake onto his nose seconds before the camera shutter.

He doesn’t feel the same pang of bitter loneliness when he stares at that photo, instead a wistfulness and regret for how he left things. These days, though, it’s been a bit better, maybe because Kyoutani has been there as… sort of a friend? He doesn’t know what he can call their relationship because Kyoutani would never admit to being friends with him.

But they do things that friends do, even if they’re not _friendly_ about it. Being with Kyoutani sometimes reminds him of the times he did have a friend, times when he had Yachi.

Next to the debate placard, hidden behind it, is a smaller photo that Yahaba’s mother had not let him throw away because, _You just look so darn cute in it, Shigeru_. It’s a wallet-sized photo of a little league volleyball team, Shigeru in the center, holding the volleyball out with the whitest smile on his face. Everyone in the picture is comically small, because the ball is a tiny version of the official size—but this is because they’re all only eight years old. Even the middle blockers are not scary when they’re only eight years old.

The number one reason Yahaba Shigeru hates volleyball: It’s a team sport, and team is a fancy word for an _exclusive_ group of people.

“Alright, form teams! Six on each, volleyball today!”

Eight-year-old Shigeru perks up, it’s his time to shine. It’s his favorite time of day, PE class at school. The physical education teacher blows his whistle, and all the boys stand up to form teams.

He’s been playing volleyball with his little league team afterschool ever since Akira had played basketball at the gym with some of his friends, and his mother had seen an advertisement for a youth volleyball league on the window. He can’t wait to show off his underhand serve—which is the only serve he knows how to do so far—but it’s probably more than the rest of the kids know how to do, so he strolls up to the group of kids closest to him.

“Guys, can I be on your team?”

“No, try another team—we have six.”

They clearly don’t; there are only four and one of them is looking over his shoulder, in search of someone other than Shigeru to help fill the two empty spots. Not letting this dampen his spirits, he strides over to another group, this time of five. Perfect, he can fit in—but they also seem to have an imaginary friend who is conveniently in the bathroom, so he has to find another team.

In desperation:

“I promise I’m good! I play afterschool with kids from other schools!”

“Sorry, we already have enough.”

His search continues rather unsuccessfully, and so after a couple minutes he finds himself walking back to the physical education teacher, whose gaze is unreadable because of his black sunglasses. He kneels down next to Yahaba and reassures him they’ll find him a team. To his horror, the teacher says exactly the wrong thing:

“Yahaba can’t find a team, someone take him in!”

There are no immediate volunteers, so the teacher points to the team closest, who finally got six members, and tells Yahaba they’ll just have to rotate around with seven for their quick matches, while Yahaba does his best to swallow his pride and the nauseous feeling of oncoming tears. 

After that, Yahaba had dropped afterschool volleyball, scared that maybe there would just be a team one day that wouldn’t want him, and that would be that. It’d be better to find things he could do on his own.

When he told Yachi he was quitting, ranting about the education system’s overrated emphasis on team sports—far too eloquent for a typical eight-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl to fully flesh out, she had gasped at him but seemed to understand, giving him a pat and encouraging him with, _You’ll find something you like better_.

But he had liked it a lot, and that was the problem.

Either way, he pushes the memory out of his head and climbs into bed, wondering what Yachi’s doing, wondering if she still has their photobooth pictures up on her wall, wondering if the silly cat plush he bought her three Christmases ago is still on her bed (his name is Mr. Whiskers), wondering what she’d think of Kyoutani Kentarou.

~

_Monday, the Kyoutanis’ apartment, 10:33pm_

A cry sounds from his sister’s room, and his mother calls from her the bathroom, still showering:

“Kentarou, could you help out?”

Putting down his homework, which he’s glad to have a break from, Kyoutani shuffles to his sister’s room and lifts her from bed. She’s just about two and a half years old, and still not potty-trained. Machiko’s chubby legs sway back and forth as Kyoutani brings her into the air. He holds her sturdily, but far away from his body and to table where he can change her diaper. Making quick work of it, he’s been trained to do this chore, only clocking in at about twenty seconds for the deed to be finished. 

He picks her up to take her back to the bed and sees his mother in the doorway. Her hair’s up in a towel and her feet are in slippers.

“Thanks, Kentarou.”

Kyoutani nods at his smiling mother, who walks over to ruffle a hand through his yellow fuzz. Machiko giggles at that, kicking at Kyoutani’s stomach, gleeful and content now that she’s all clean.

After the two put her to sleep, Kyoutani and his mother walk out into the hallway. Kyoutani’s about to go into his room to finish up his work, but he hears his mother stop in the hall.

“Kentarou, the school called a month or two back and I missed the call because I was at work and forgot to call back, I was between shifts. Is there something I should be worried about? They sounded concerned.”

Honestly, Kyoutani’s surprised that she hasn’t mentioned this earlier; however, her hectic schedule at the hospital as a nurse who needs double-overtime to support her family doesn’t give her a lot of free time for relaxation, much less time to listen to long-winded voicemails about a delinquent son with bad grades. 

“Oh, they just wanted me to turn in some homework—”

He plays it down, because obviously _I was almost kicked off the volleyball team because I just never did anything for school,_ is not something anybody would tell their mother if they wanted to continue living a nice, happy life.

“Kentarou…”

“I know, it’s all good though.” He does his best to look calm in front of his mother, who eyes him, unsure if he’s telling the truth.

“It better be. But if anything ever goes wrong please tell me, Kentarou,” Her voice starts to crack and Kentarou knows what might happen next, “I know I’m busy ever since Dad—”

“ _Ma_ , really you don’t have to worry. It’s fine.” To persuade her, he tacks on, “The teachers said I am doing well now, Coach too.” That seems to assuage her remaining doubts, disbelief leaving her expression and a smile pulling at the edges of her eyes.

“Okay, okay, I trust you. Don’t feel like you need to hide anything, no matter how small, okay? I’m here.”

She places a hand on his shoulder, to emphasize it. 

“I know.” _I do know_.

“Alright, goodnight Kentarou. You’re the best, you know?”

“Okay Ma.”

* * *

_Tuesday, Yahaba’s break time_

At breaktime, Kyoutani and Yahaba typically go early to their next class, but today Kyoutani seems to have a mind of his own and heads outside.

Deciding that waiting by himself in class will be boring, Yahaba runs to catch up to Kyoutani, and falters a little when he notices Kyoutani is taking them to the volleyball courts.

Noticing Yahaba’s hesitation, Kyoutani explains, “I wanted to get some serving practice in before Nationals.” Around Yahaba, Kyoutani has to explain himself a lot more than he’s used to. It’s definitely because they don’t think in the same way.

“Ah. Okay.”

Surprisingly, Yahaba follows him in as Kyoutani unlocks the door to the gym and flips on a few switches, bathing the wood flooring in fluorescent lights. He hurries to get the ball cart out from the gear closet, while Yahaba sits down on the court, spreading his legs out and setting his backpack down.

Kyoutani takes a ball from the cart and stands behind the line, pounding the ball to the ground with a few swats, “Do you know what a jump serve is?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how to do one.” _Yes, but I never got to learn how to do one._

_Yes, but I ran away before I even gave myself the chance to try._

Kyoutani shrugs, “Yeah, it’s pretty hard.”

Contradicting himself, he throws the ball, leaps, and wields his arm like a club, smacking it into the ball and launching it across the court. It smashes and deforms on the opposite side, ricocheting to near where Yahaba sits, and he yelps.

“Hey, I’d like to live to a ripe and healthy age!”

He had definitely done that on purpose, that asshole. Avoiding the side of the court that Kyoutani is attacking seems like a good move. So, Yahaba sits up and runs to where Kyoutani stands, then passing him to go to the ball cart. He scoops up a ball, one that he hasn’t touched in a _long_ time, throwing another one to Kyoutani to make it easier for him. Kyoutani raises his eyebrow at the assist.

Yahaba’s not sure why he did that either, but he does know that he wants to see Kyoutani serve again. That’s what a jump serve should look like. This is a chance to learn. 

~

_Tuesday, one of Miyagi’s many streets, Kyoutani’s walk home, 4:40pm_

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he heads home, a long practice over and done with.

Coach Nobuteru had spent an extra half-hour reviewing all the plays that they _already_ knew, he must be nervous since they’re finally going to Nationals again, and he wants to make sure they make it past the initial brackets. Kyoutani thinks the coaches should have a bit more faith in them, but with everyone antsy and anxious for the coming tournament, he guesses that everyone is a bit on edge.

Wanting to ignore the buzz, because it’s probably a request from Watari, but needing to check in case it’s his mom, Kyoutani pulls out his phone.

It’s neither.

 **Yahaba Shigeru:** can you teach me how to jump serve?

Kyoutani scowls at the screen, not knowing how or when he’s gotten Yahaba’s number—then he remembers Yahaba stealing his phone and putting it in shortly after they had met, insisting, _You should have my number in case you have homework questions._ They had never texted each other, though, until now.

Kyoutani’s more of an in-person talker, if he talks at all. There’s a bubble on his screen, indicating the blabbermouth still isn’t done texting him.

 **Yahaba Shigeru:** oh, btw. i’m coming to watch nationals, i’ve decided.

A smirk tugs at Kyoutani’s right cheek, bringing his mouth along with it.

He fumbles his phone in his hands and sends back “fine. also, don’t show up to nationals i don’t want to see your stupid face in the stands.” He changes the contact name for Yahaba, not liking the formal last name, first name arrangement that’s going on. 

**jackass:** this stupid face?

There’s a selfie attached, Yahaba with an unflattering grin that somehow still causes Kyoutani’s throat to close up and his fingers to lose feeling, almost dropping his phone altogether. In the selfie, he’s out of his uniform, wearing a white tee and hair soft and bouncy. His eyes are closed for maximum silliness and his teeth are blinding, parted to poke out a cheeky tip of his tongue. The background must be his room, which is painted a muted blue and has a bookshelf—

Kyoutani ends up walking straight into a telephone pole and curses himself, but maybe he should curse the stupid face.

No, probably himself, it’s his own fault. He really needs to get a grip before he crashes into anything else. To do that, he shoves his phone in his pocket, ignoring the subsequent buzzes that he knows come from **jackass**.

* * *

_Wednesday, lunchtime, as Kyoutani spends it_

Kyoutani opens the student council door to see Yahaba chugging down a bottle of water. Upon finishing the bottle he has in his hand, he reaches for another one, pulling it from a crate that has many more in it. The plastic bottles crinkle as he wrestles another one free.

“What are you doing?!”

Yahaba puffs up, “What does it look like? Saving the whole damn school!”

Clearly, Kyoutani still doesn’t understand, and he’s not going to give Yahaba the satisfaction of curiosity. Yahaba’s well aware, so he tells him anyways.

“I have a plan, yours truly is really a genius here,” _Get a load of this guy._ “When all these are empty, I’m going to put teal paint—for Seijoh, of course—inside along with some rocks from the front of the school. When you shake ‘em, the rocks in the bottle will make a loud noise. That’ll be noisy enough, right?”

It’s smart—and resourceful—Kyoutani admits to himself. Crazy enough where it just might work better than intended—like everything Yahaba does.

He’s blabbing on, as he does when Kyoutani is there, “I sorta got the idea from how you like to tap your foot, like rattling noises can be really _annoying_ if you’re not used to them—right? Not that you’re annoying me anymore, I’m used to it…” Inside, Kyoutani smiles, slightly pleased that he had accidentally gotten on Yahaba’s nerves that long ago. “…But I think it might just be enough to get the other teams annoyed!”

With that, Yahaba uncaps the next bottle and gulps down the water, throat bobbing as he does so. He interrupts his drinking when he sees Kyoutani still standing in the doorway and beckons Kyoutani over to the couch. Recently, Kyoutani can’t ever look at the couch without thinking about the night Yahaba had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Sitting on it could be better than having to stare at it. 

“Here, help me drink some of this.”

“No way,” remembering that Yahaba is president of the entire student council, he asks, “Where are your other members? Can’t they help?”

Yahaba points to the window, “They are. They’re outside collecting the rocks for us,” Kyoutani tries to ignore how Yahaba has said _us_ , implying that he already assumes Kyoutani is going to help him. “They have some water bottles too, so they’re watering some plants along the way to empty them.”

Efficient, killing two birds with one stone. Yahaba’s an interesting force of nature.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Why can’t _we_ water the plants?”

“Don’t you need to be hydrated for volleyball? Stop being such a baby.”

Resigned to his fate, Kyoutani sits next to Yahaba, who snickers and hands him an uncapped water bottle.

~

_Wednesday, English class, as Yahaba suffers through it_

Yahaba checks the clock. There are ten minutes more until the bell rings, but Yahaba doesn’t think he can make it. Perhaps the water bottle chugging hadn’t been the smartest move. He had been thirsty before lunch, and he had seen a perfect solution to the principal’s gear-ordering mishap, so he had gone for it. Perhaps watering the plants would have been better. Regardless, Kyoutani and him had finished off fifteen bottles during lunch period, and they needed to get to about two-hundred. A long way to go, more water bottles to empty. Thinking about the water is the wrong move. He crosses his legs, trying to ignore his bladder’s pleas.

Finally, he gives in, and in the middle of when they’re supposed to be filling out a conversation worksheet, Yahaba raises his hand in desperation.

“Mister Edwards, may I use the restroom?”

Even in English, Yahaba’s strain gets across—Mr. Edwards insists on them using English, as an American overseas who teaches at an all-Japanese high school. It’s definitely the best way to get the students to learn, but right now Yahaba thinks if the purpose of language is to communicate, then it shouldn’t matter through what medium when _nature is calling_.

“Yahaba, that’s the third time this period.”

“I’m sorry, I—I really need…” he struggles to remember how to say _I really need to go, or else my bladder is going to explode and you’re not going to want to see that,_ in English, because they had never learned the words for ‘bladder’ or ‘explode’.

Suddenly, Kyoutani raises his hand as well.

“Mister Edwards, I need to use the restroom too.”

“Kyoutani, that’s the second time for you this hour.”

Kyoutani grumbles, “You’re keeping track?” in Japanese, to which the other classmates absolutely lose it, laughs and giggles unsuccessfully stifled. There are too many for Mr. Edwards to be mad at any one of them. So he settles by being exasperated at all of them. 

Mr. Edwards smacks his desk table, but not hard. More because he doesn’t know what else to do, because he’s a nice teacher and he’s going to let them go, anyways.

“I heard that! Why… do I even try sometimes? …Go ahead, you two.”

* * *

_Thursday, Seijoh volleyball gym, Kyoutani’s lunchtime, 12:43pm_

Yahaba’s a bit too early on his jump, his ball was thrown much too high, and his arm is at a wonky angle that would make any seasoned volleyball player cringe. But it’s not that terrible considering it’s only Yahaba’s fifth attempt at a jump serve. Net, out, out, and net were the last four outcomes.

Kyoutani hums as he watches the ball sail through the air, watches Yahaba fly up with his hand outstretched. Kyoutani stands by the net, to observe.

Amazingly, there’s a contact, albeit a bit too high on the palm for Kyoutani’s liking, and the ball whizzes through the air, across the net, with a chipper speed that reveals Yahaba might have somewhat of an eye for volleyball. Even though the ball is out and hits the wall on the opposite court, it’s only a testament to Yahaba’s raw strength. It’s very uncanny, almost inhuman for a novice.

He wouldn’t have expected this from the President. 

Kyoutani calls out to Yahaba, “You are very wound up,” noting the tense muscles that Yahaba put all of his energy into using. It could be good for him to let off steam once in a while. 

Yahaba gives no indication that he’s heard what Kyoutani says and yells, “This is… FUN!” with such a glee causing the almost-forgotten tension that bubbles in Kyoutani’s stomach to spread through his chest and into his heart.

It’s different this time, because Kyoutani starts to laugh.

And he can’t stop. Yahaba had just looked so happy. Pomeranian, mushroom-head who had insulted the volleyball team and him left and right, has just experienced his first post-serve high.

He doesn’t care that his laugh sounds throughout the gym, doesn’t care that Yahaba’s looking at him as though he doesn’t recognize him. It’s only a second of bewildered silence before Yahaba joins in, giddily laughing as well.

~

_Thursday, Seijoh volleyball gym, Yahaba’s lunchtime, 12:59pm_

“What’s all the noise in here? Oh, Kyoutani—it’s you?”

Still getting over hearing Kyoutani’s laugh for the very first time, Yahaba barely notices the two figures standing in the door to the gym. One has tall, spiky hair and a narrow face, whereas the other has flat black hair that is plastered to his rounder one. 

Kyoutani nods, “Yeah. Sorry. Serve practicing.”

The shorter one says, “Kyoutani, can you help me with cut shots? I can’t get them to be as fast as my straights.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Kyoutani shoots Yahaba an… apologetic look? Yahaba’s never seen one like it before from Kyoutani, but that’s what it seems to be. Yahaba gives him a tentative smile back. It’s fine.

The two eye Yahaba, “If you’re practicing with someone, it’s okay.”

“No, he doesn’t mind. That’s Ya—”

“Yahaba, we know.” _They know him?_ “Isn’t he the president?” Oh, right. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Oh, hi,” Yahaba stiffens and waves, “Kyoutani was just teaching me how to serve.”

The taller one speaks, “Why does president need to know how to serve?”

Yahaba laughs, “No reason. Just for fun. But go ahead, I can watch.”

Turns out the two are named Kindaichi and Kunimi, Kunimi is also a wing spiker like Kyoutani. Kindaichi seems to be a sort of blocker who follows Kunimi around and helps set up a block so that Kunimi can attempt both a straight and a cross court shot for Kyoutani to evaluate.

Kyoutani tosses a set up in the air for Kunimi, “Go.” He promptly steps back so he can get a better look at Kunimi’s form, while Kindaichi shoots into the air. Kunimi hits the straight, which quickly lands on the line. Though Yahaba is sitting on the bench further away, he can see that it clearly hit its mark.

Then, Kyoutani tosses another ball, and Kunimi tries to get it across the court. Though the ball narrowly misses Kindaichi’s block and hits the other side, the speed is lacking. It’s fast, but not as fast.

“See?”

“I think I know, I noticed it when watching your game video, too. Your elbow. When you’re angling for a cut shot, your body can still face forward to fake out the blockers, but your elbow has to get ready for the cut. When you’re doing a cut shot, it’s too much like your straight so the impact is wrong.”

Yahaba watches Kyoutani hold Kunimi’s elbow and mock a spike, moving it through the air repeatedly so Kunimi gets the hang of it. There’s a certain patience and calm that Kyoutani has when he’s explaining the technique, and Yahaba can’t help but notice how careful and kind he’s been. Really, Kyoutani has an appearance that would scare off young children but speaking one or two words to him is enough to know that he’s much gentler and good-natured than his first impression suggests.

“Try this.”

“Oh, I think that makes sense.”

To try out the new technique, Kyoutani throws the ball once again and Kunimi meets it, and although his approach is a little ungraceful, he meets the ball with a less awkward angle and lands it satisfyingly in the opposite court. 

“That was better. You should keep doing that so you can make it smoother.”

A loud voice interrupts, “Hello? I thought I told everyone loud and clear not to wreck their bodies with extra practice before Nationals.”

Kindaichi straightens up, Yahaba smirks because his already pointy hair seems to stiffen further.

“Watari!”

Kyoutani grumbles, “Well, why are you here, too?”

Watari raises his eyebrow at Kyoutani, “Because I heard noises while passing by. Vice-captain is so cute when he helps you guys that I can’t help but let it happen.” _Kyoutani is vice-captain?_

Kyoutani sighs, “Ugh.”

“I’m sorry—vice-captain?” Yahaba clamps his hand over his mouth, because until this very second, he’s been an invisible observer.

“Who’s this?”

Kyoutani introduces Yahaba and beckons him over with a hurried wave. Obliging, Yahaba bounds over to the group of them, and Kyoutani scoots over so that Yahaba’s included in their circle. Watari smiles at him, while Kindaichi and Kunimi drink from their _clear_ plastic water bottles, no doubt a little tired from the practice.

Yahaba asks, “Hey, can I have all your empty water bottles?”

Kunimi and Kindaichi give each other a confused look, then stare at Kyoutani and Yahaba. Yahaba grins, hoping that they’ll contribute their bottles, because it is a cause that benefits them, after all. 

Kyoutani grunts, “Don’t ask.” Kyoutani seems a little embarrassed.

Whether he meant _Don’t ask why he’s asking for the bottles,_ or _Yahaba, don’t ask for the water bottles_ , Yahaba doesn’t know, but he would ask a hundred times more just to rile up Kyoutani. It’s pretty fun.

* * *

_Friday, Yahaba’s passing period, 11:15am_

Yahaba fidgets with his metal lock, turning it clockwise to get to thirty-four, then turning it the other way to get to twelve, and then fussing quickly to get it to six, the last number. He pulls down and it opens, springing free and he unloads his backpack to get the next set of textbooks he will need. Kyoutani stands next to him, waiting.

This little ritual of theirs is just because they have the same class schedule, Yahaba tells himself. Not because Kyoutani’s willingly there. He quietly watches Yahaba pick and choose the books he needs.

This week had been… different… to say the least. Yahaba hadn’t expected to ever touch a volleyball again. Kyoutani had let him be a part of his team, although unintentionally. He had played with Yahaba. Really, that was something Yahaba had needed all those years ago.

“You know, I used to play volleyball,” Yahaba says, not really sure why he’s talking or where it’s going, “It was only for a few months… But… I really liked it.” It’s so petty, so unreasonable, and so pathetic that he’s let volleyball haunt him even though it had just been a brief stint when he was eight.

He shuts the locker, maybe so that the conversation with end with the passing period, but he sees Kyoutani watching him, waiting for Yahaba to explain himself further. There’s a small hint of surprise in Kyoutani’s face, mouth slightly parted at Yahaba’s admission.

Yahaba turns to him, “I just—there was just one point where I didn’t know if I would always have a team. And then my worst fear was that I just might not have a team no matter where I went.”

The words feel small and tiny, because it sounds really unreasonable when he says it aloud, when he’s saying it to someone who has a team, someone who is an instrumental part of a team.

“Is that stupid?”

Kyoutani shakes his head.

~

_Friday, Kyoutani’s passing period, 11:17am_

Shaking his head, Kyoutani tells Yahaba, “I didn’t play on the team until my second year.”

“My first year, I didn’t want part of any team. I thought I could play volleyball by myself, and I wouldn’t have understood your need for a team, because I thought I only needed myself.”

He remembers insisting that he only needs himself, telling his father that no one else understands his style of play, that they’re all dense for not giving him the ball whenever he asks for it. His dad had quietly listened, very sick at the time, bedridden and feeble, but listening.

Yahaba’s eyes widen, “What changed your mind?”

“Someone gave me a talking to. Kinda like you.”

 _You’re going to need others. Others will need you. Remember that, when I’m gone. Especially when I’m gone. Your family, your team, whoever. They need you and you need them. Strength in numbers, and I told you to be strong, right Kentarou?_ That was his father’s response. The last words he ever said to Kyoutani. He can’t forget them, even if he had tried his best to, because there’s no way that he wants to need anyone other than his dad.

Shrugging, Kyoutani turns on his heel, and Yahaba follows him: “But it’s stupid that I thought that way, because people sometimes need each other. A team exists to support you, you’re stronger in a team.”

Continuing, he wonders why any team wouldn’t want Yahaba, “I don’t know what team rejected you, or whatever, but I’m sure they didn’t know what they were doing.”

Yahaba thinks on that, lip clenching and unclenching as though he might say something.

Not knowing where this is coming from, Kyoutani keeps going, “A team made of selfish people isn’t a good one. Aren’t you the one who told me selfish is bad?”

“Yeah, I guess I did tell you that.”

Preppy President adjusts his tie, and Kyoutani might have imagined that Yahaba’s eyes have a dewy consistency.

“Well, um. Thanks. For being my friend.”

Whatever serious mood Kyoutani had been in before shatters and he capitalizes on it. It’s a good time to turn it back into their normal back-and-forth.

Pantomiming his best clueless face, Kyoutani lets out an, “Uh…”

Yahaba furrows his brows, misty eyes evaporating instantly, “Don’t make me take it back. Oh god.”

Kyoutani might be joking, “You’re welcome.”

“No. Stop. Taking it back.”

Yahaba plugs his ears with his fingers, pretending he won’t hear anything else Kyoutani has to say. That’s all fine, Kyoutani doesn’t need to say anything else.

 _Friend._ Kyoutani’s dad used to call Kyoutani’s mother his best friend. Yahaba might be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yahaba is so clueless and Kyoutani is so in love. Gotta love it.


	6. Nationals and an April afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are hard to keep. Especially ones that aren't your own and ones that you don't want to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a lot that goes on in this chapter, I opened my document and literally fainted at the number of plot points I wanted to include in it? So I moved some of it to next chapter instead. Anyways, IwaOi in the flesh make their appearance, albeit brief. 
> 
> Oh yeah, content warning for some glass and blood. Not that much, though. AND I updated the tags so please make sure you’re okay with what I added.

_Many years ago, a winter afternoon in Miyagi, 4:00pm_

The dull numb of the cold, compact snowball in his mittened hand pales in comparison to the anticipation of getting ready to throw an icy surprise at his older brother. He’s patted it into the perfect sphere on his way home from school. Snowball ambushes are an inside joke between them, Akira even going to the extent to save one in the freezer one time to throw one at Shigeru after his shower one evening last winter.

It’s perfect: there’s no one else in the house, since his mother is picking up Hiroki from kindergarten and his dad is still at work. There’s no one to hear the yelp that Akira will let out, no one to get him in trouble.

Quiet as a mouse, he knows Akira is most likely studying at his desk, so Shigeru will need to swing open the door as fast as he can, because the desk is right next to the door. This plan could go wrong very fast if he isn’t careful. Gingerly, he places his other hand—the mitten softens any kind of noise—and begins to turn the brass knob.

It’s painstakingly slow, but Shigeru is willing to wait, he wants to get back at Akira for the snowball he threw at him the other day when Hiroki was too busy distracting their mother by crying about his snow boot blistering his foot.

With a deft turn and a swift swing, Shigeru bursts through the door into the room, already with his right hand in position as a catapult—but he doesn’t throw.

He’s met with a sight he can’t comprehend.

Akira’s sitting on his bed, having just untangled himself from the... embrace of… Hikaru, wasn’t it?

Hikaru is a classmate of Akira’s, a boy. One of his older brother’s newer friends who occasionally stops by for frequent study sessions… which are obviously, decidedly _not_ study sessions now that Shigeru is privy to this new information.

Shigeru is used to his brother having friends over, but they’re usually studying, playing videogames, or watching basketball games together… not… not this.

The deranged look in Akira’s eyes matches his burning cheeks, panting chest, moist lips, and ruffled hair—hair that Hikaru has _definitely_ had a hand in messing up—a panicked look that only says one thing: _Not a word._

Not a word.

As quickly and as carefully as he had entered, Shigeru closes the door with an obvious _click_. On his way to his room, he stops by the restroom to throw the melting snowball into the sink. The evidence will melt away if he leaves the warm water on for a bit, so he turns the handle to the left of the faucet on, not even stopping to watch the snowy sphere dwindle to its icy core.

Instead, he finds himself on his own bed, knees drawn to his chest as he persuades himself that maybe what he saw was something he had entirely misunderstood. _Maybe_ Akira had just had a long day and needed a hug from one of his friends. _Maybe_ it wasn’t anything deeper than that, _maybe_ the reason his brother’s lips had looked so pink, so wet, had nothing to do with Hikaru and everything to do with Akira having licked them repeatedly to prevent them from being chapped in the harsh winter wind.

He’s even less sure of why this is a big deal, because he already knows Yachi likes girls, so why can’t his brother like boys? This is not the same; Yachi was open and had trusted Shigeru with that secret. Akira is his _brother_ , Akira is the picture-perfect student-athlete, the model eldest sibling, his carved-out-of-marble example that Shigeru looks up to. He still does, it’s just that Akira’s reaction just made him feel like he’s seen something behind the curtain.

The sheer terror in Akira’s eyes had struck right into Shigeru’s soul, and the fear makes him afraid on behalf of his brother.

Rocking back and forth on his mattress, Shigeru persuades himself that it is no big deal, and it’s all just a big misunderstanding, repeating this to himself until he realizes he’s left the bathroom sink running, and goes to shut it off.

Shigeru keeps the secret safe. Guards it for however long he thinks Akira will need, which may be forever. Akira had announced his first girlfriend to the family shortly after matriculating to med school. By then, it had been five years since Shigeru made his last snowball.

 _She’s wonderful, I plan on marrying her if she’ll have me,_ he says with a stiff and steely smile.

His mother gasps, Hiroki giggles, his father winks connivingly, and Shigeru wonders if Akira ever thought he would marry Hikaru.

Is being a good secret keeper the same as being a good brother?

* * *

As it goes, boy-to-boy proximity is a concept Yahaba hasn’t thought about since his final snowball, but now that Kyoutani is across from him as he studies the work for a calculus problem Yahaba has done, it’s somehow impossible to ignore the faint traces of Kyoutani’s breath that fall on Yahaba’s arms.

Peach fuzz on his arm sways with each huff of Kyoutani’s concerted concentration. They fall flat when Kyoutani sighs, frustrated at the type of limits problem he just can’t seem to do without Yahaba’s examples. In the beginning, Kyoutani would have been happy to just copy Yahaba’s work without blinking, but Kyoutani’s competitiveness is not just in volleyball, it seems. Now, he seems to not want to depend on Yahaba, or at least make sure that he can do things on his own.

 _I know I look stupid, but I’m not_ , is what everything Kyoutani’s doing is saying right now. 

The tip of his tongue licks at his upper lip, and Yahaba tears his eyes away from the familiar act of focus.

He asks, “Wanna hint?” even though he knows the answer to what he’s asking.

“No.”

To get a rise out of him, Yahaba makes as though he is going to point to the paper to help him, but Kyoutani brushes him aside nonchalantly, almost too dismissively because he clasps his hand gently, unconsciously, around Yahaba’s wrist, keeping him from giving him any sort of help.

With a satisfied sigh, Kyoutani finishes his work and circles the answer, to which Yahaba can’t help but snort at because it’s _wrong_. He wishes he had fast enough reflexes to snap a picture of Kyoutani at his proudest.

“There’s a one-fourth you forgot to multiply by.”

“No there isn—,” Stilling, Kyoutani aggressively tears at the paper with his eraser after spotting the fraction he had forgotten about. Huffing, he mutters, “You distracted me when I was trying to focus.”

“That sounds like an excuse—”

“It’s not.”

“Am I really so distracting?” Yahaba pushes a little, with a greedy smile.

“I thought you said that to jump serve you only focus on one thing. Where’s that focus now?”

_Hit the ball._

_Keep your eye on the ball_ , Kyoutani tells him repeatedly, when teaching Yahaba how to do the jump serve _._

The overwhelmingly obvious simplicity of the command, overpowering the mind so that there’s only room to think about the task at hand is a welcome way of thinking. The stillness of the singular task is addicting, and Yahaba understands the appeal, of being the only person on the court in that moment—just the server, the ball, and his throw. No one else can infringe, not even any of Yahaba’s other thoughts. Again, a welcome change from the parallel trains of spiraling streams of consciousness he’s used to cluttering up his mind.

It’s very clear that Kyoutani’s bare-bones approach to volleyball, to jump serves, is the same one he uses for every other aspect of his life. Though Yahaba wouldn’t be surprised if about seventy percent of Kyoutani’s mental imagery just consists of a volleyball in mid-flight, even when he’s not playing volleyball at all. It’s hilarious that he is giving the same effort here. No one would have ever imagined. 

“Whatever. I think I’m ready.”

“I think so too. For more than just the test.”

He pretends not to notice the way Kyoutani drops his wrist and looks away, scratching his scalp with the newly free hand. Pretends not to notice because there’s not anything to it. 

* * *

_Eight is the number of Yahaba’s pencils that Kyoutani has borrowed, then lost._

“You chew through all of the erasers! Get your own pencils!”

“I like yours better. They’re always sharp.”

“Not anymore, lazy ass.”

The next time his mother goes out for groceries, Yahaba asks her to buy two boxes of pencils. And the biggest eraser she can find. He cackles when she returns with one that has _For Big Mistakes_ printed on it and decides there’s nothing more perfect to give to Kyoutani the next day.

_Seven is the number of blades of grass Yahaba can stick in Kyoutani’s yellow fuzz before he notices._

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Kyoutani paws at his hair, probably feeling ticklish for the past few minutes and only now realizing that it isn’t some stray fly’s doing. Yahaba watches his face darken when he feels the grass and watches him grasp at the few blades.

“Shit.”

The next thing he knows, he’s up and running. Yahaba doesn’t know where to, but he knows who from.

“You’re dead meat— _get back here!”_

Debating on whether or not looking back will give him the advantage of an additional boost of adrenaline: fight or flight is definitely necessary now, Yahaba decides that he can’t risk tripping over his two feet, so he pumps his feet harder and sings out a death wish instead:

“Now why would I do that—”

He’s cut off when he’s body slammed by Kyoutani Kentarou—lower jaw slamming into his upper mandible on impact—and they both tumble to the ground, off-balance and limbs helter-skelter. Gasping for breath, it takes Yahaba a moment before registering that he’s under Kyoutani, whose knee is digging into his thigh and whose two arms flank the sides of his head, and whose heaving chest pushes right into Yahaba’s own. Yahaba exhales when Kyoutani inhales, their breaths driven by each other for a few cycles. Nothing separating them but their thin uniforms.

Suddenly, there’s a fleeting _this is so, so close_ that floats in Yahaba’s mind, and Kyoutani telepathically stiffens and hops right off, backpedaling in the grass on his behind to create space.

_Five is the number of times he catches Kyoutani looking at him in English._

A hissed whisper:

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“Lookin’ outside the window.”

“No, you’re not.’’

_Four is somehow the number of times Kyoutani sees the little lighted window after the end of evening practices, and it’s somehow also the number of times he’s gone inside to that student council room, and finally, it’s frighteningly the number of times Yahaba has fallen asleep on his shoulder._

The number of his favorite professional volleyball player and also the number of times he’s been too indulgent to Yahaba Shigeru’s late-night naps. 

_Three times, Yahaba convinces himself that it’s normal for guy friends to be as physically close as they have become._

The first time he had fallen asleep on Kyoutani’s shoulder had been an honest mistake, but the subsequent three were all his doing, and thrice he repeats _this is something friends do_ , before letting the weight of his head loll itself to the side, where he trusts Kyoutani to be. 

_Two: the number of times Kyoutani has smiled, because of Yahaba—at least the times he’s seen it._

“You saw that, right?”

“I have eyes.”

Having just smacked the best serve he’s ever executed, Yahaba stares at the red, aching hand below him. He grasps at straws to gulp when he catches sight of Kyoutani, who is grinning at him with lopsided smirk and a blazing look of pride for a jump serve that was finally up to snuff. Embers in his eyes and a sneering smile shouldn’t make Yahaba so proud of himself for a single sufficient serve, but they do.

“C’mon, tell me that wasn’t the best jump serve I’ve done.”

“That wasn’t the best jump serve you’ve done.”

He doesn’t mean it, Kyoutani’s lying through his teeth. They both know.

“Oh c’mon. So, your coaching isn’t all that, huh.”

“Shut up. Take responsibility for yourself, don’t blame me.”

“That’s rich, since you’re _my_ responsibility, technically. Still are!”

Not fighting back his inflammatory remark, Kyoutani simply passes him another ball from the cart, keeping a fierce, proud, and unbridled eye contact with him. _You can do it again_ , the pass says. Yahaba doesn’t disappoint. 

* * *

**jackass:** ur gonna win all ur games tmr, right?

Kyoutani types out, “ofc” but then deletes it because even though he’d like to, even though he’d usually have the confidence to own up to things like that, for some reason this time he doesn’t want to jinx anything. Instead, he sends a “go to sleep” to Yahaba, who is probably up late doing homework, but not busy enough because obviously he has a second to bother Kyoutani, which seems to be his favorite pastime. Yahaba needs more hobbies, ridiculous because he’s the busiest person Kyoutani knows.

As he’s staring up at his phone from his reclined position in bed, a buzz shakes his hand and another notification pops up, which is unusual because only Yahaba texts him these days.

 **iwaizumi:** Good luck, oikawa and i will be watching you guys on tv

 **> > **okay. ty. isn’t it going to be late in cali?

 **Iwaizumi:** Do u rlly think that will stop us?

Then, there’s a typing bubble but instead of a text message there’s a voice note, which Kyoutani lowers the volume on his phone for because he just _knows_ it’s going to be the all-too-familiar lilt sounding through his speaker:

“ _Kyouken!_ Even though we’re not going to be there in person, we’ll be yelling your name so loud that you’re going to hear us in Tokyo. Also, Watari told me how well you’ve been doing and how much you’ve improved and how much you’re helping out all the underclassmen, and I couldn’t be prouder of my selection for vice-captain—' _Kawa, that was my idea—_ relax, Iwa, it was _our_ decision. Anyways, you’re going to do so well tomorrow and you’re going to win, and even if you don’t—but you will, you will, you know—you already know that you have the strongest team backing you up, and losing doesn’t mean you’re not a good team, it doesn’t mean you’re not a good player.”

Of all advice to give, Oikawa gives advice that Kyoutani already knows, especially after their loss last year. He hears the freshly healed hurt in Oikawa’s voice at the end of the note, which still harbors some lingering disappointment, but only disappointment that he couldn’t see his team all the way through. Seijoh is only stronger because of what happened last year, not weaker.

If anything, Oikawa knows that too.

 **iwaizumi:** Sorry, he grabbed the phone before i even knew what he was gonna do

 **> > **i’m going to sleep now. thx iwaizumi.

He adds, “thx oikawa,” to the end of it, begrudgingly but because somewhere inside, he does mean it. He sends it, only to see another notification pop up.

 **jackass:** don’t tell me what to do. sleeping now, NOT bc u told me to.

Typically, Kyoutani doesn’t go to bed trying to stifle a snicker. After settling down, sleep finds him easily and quickly, though if he were less proud and if his ego were a little smaller, he might admit that being awake with a warm chest and a laugh caught in his heart isn’t so bad.

* * *

With a single tweet of the whistle, the referee calls the shot in, and there’s just so much yelling, so much screaming, and so much volume with the rattle of the DIY-noisemakers that Yahaba has distributed to each and every student supporter, and he’s is in the front of it all, not swallowed by the noise but leading it.

This Tokyo volleyball stadium has never heard such a crowd of manicured, private-school prep kids with screams louder than rowdy.

Yahaba Shigeru is the loudest one there is.

On the court, Kyoutani has just descended from his signature spike, but he’s not visible because Watari, Kindaichi, Kunimi, and the first-year setter who Yahaba hasn’t seen until today tackle Kyoutani with a big hug, and they’re all scuffing the yellow hair, clapping him on the back. Tears of happiness and hard work are too hard to see from the stands, but Yahaba knows they’re being shed from the way the players wipe at their eyes with the collars of their jerseys and the way they turn their gazes to the floor before bowing to the audience with their genuine, _THANK YOU!_

When they lift their heads, the student crowd and the parents who came to support cheer in pride, and Kyoutani catches Yahaba’s eyes while he’s mid-yell and here is the third time Yahaba has ever seen Kyoutani laugh or smile, and it’s somehow the purest expression he’s ever seen on anybody.

To think that it’s for him. 

_One, one second is all Yahaba gives the intrusive thought in his mind before banishing it for its audacious stupidity:_

I think Kyoutani likes me.

Swallowing it down, he waves his bottle and yells again, grinning full-blown sunlight back at Kyoutani for a win that his team has earned, knowing he’ll doesn’t hate volleyball anymore the way he had been.

* * *

He stands before him, and Yahaba can see all the sweat on Kyoutani’s neck and on the front of his damp jersey, evidence of a hard game played and testament to his need to win.

Kyoutani puts his hands in his jacket pockets, “You were having fun,” an obvious jest to Yahaba.

“So were you,” remembering the absolute look of relish on his face before each spike. “Good job,” he manages out, because even though he means it he so rarely compliments Kyoutani.

Kyoutani cocks his head to the side a bit, quietly waiting for Yahaba to say more, as he usually does.

Yahaba confesses, “I want to play with you.”

“We have played together,” it’s more of a question, that then morphs into a jab, “Greedy.” A teasing tone on his voice, though Kyoutani’s expression reveals surprise at Yahaba’s stated desire.

“No, like on a court, in a game, maybe.”

Yahaba thinks of Kyoutani’s team embracing him on the court, so happy for him and so proud that he had been able to hit the winning point, and he thinks of how everyone has supported him, but Yahaba’s been supporting him too, just maybe in a different way, but it only makes sense if he can give him a hug, too, right?

He had wanted to be there, on the court, too. _It makes sense. His teammates can hug him. I can._

Kyoutani says, “Okay—” but doesn’t finish because Yahaba tackles him with an aggressive hug.

They’re around the same height; maybe Yahaba’s a little taller, but their heads are next to each other and Yahaba shifts his ever so slightly, so that the very corner of his lips brush against Kyoutani’s sweaty, warm cheek. Make no mistake, it’s not a kiss. Not anything. Then he’s frozen and makes no movement, only allowing that contact because he’s too afraid to think of doing more, even too afraid to think about what more _even is_ , and too afraid to know what Kyoutani would do if he did do more.

So, they stay there like that, Kyoutani being hugged and Yahaba hugging, and then there’s a small awkward, but certain pat on his back reassuring him, _Sure jackass, we can play together._

Which is all Yahaba needs.

“Hey, president,” a voice calls, the second-year treasurer, “Get off your boyfriend, we’ll miss the bus back to school.” Yahaba pushes himself off of Kyoutani, who doesn’t look nearly as disoriented as he probably does. Cursing himself, Yahaba reaches for his neck but there’s no tie to adjust so he straightens out and his fingers are jelly, and his legs might be, too.

Stammering, Yahaba gets out, “He’s not—” and feels his throat close up and his feet wobble.

Kyoutani interrupts for the both of them with a noncommittal, “See ya,” and heads down the hall to where the rest of his team is.

The second-year treasurer, Seiichi, was only joking, didn’t mean anything by it. Yet it doesn’t explain why Yahaba can’t form a single thing to say or explain himself, nor does it help the jittery shake that seems to take over his chest. Seiichi has always been the type to tease and taunt, voted in treasurer because he’s popular with the student body; he’s never down to business when he needs to be. It’s clear that he’s not Yahaba’s favorite subordinate.

But in this moment, the unpleasantness Yahaba feels isn’t because he dislikes Seiichi.

It feels a lot like he’s been caught. He’s frightened and his chest is filled with a foreign flutter, his numbed fingers feel the phantom traces of a slushy snowball from five years ago.

* * *

**jackass:** sorry about that, earlier.

 **> >** ??? about what lol

 **jackass:** nvm

Walking back from their post-tournament dinner, coaches too drunk and players too victory high, Kyoutani had only sat there thinking about the stupid feeling in his throat. Forcing more food down hadn’t helped, again. He doesn’t really know what’s up with Yahaba, but then again, he doesn’t really know what’s going on with himself, either.

So again, for the second time, he sits on the lawn outside of his apartment complex, ready to make another call. It rings once and there’s an answer.

“Hey Kentarou. I—I’m so proud of you guys. You did it. Watari—I’m proud of him, too.”

It’s almost funny how choked up Iwaizumi is over the phone, but Kyoutani steels himself from smirking to wash it from his voice and tells him what he needs to hear.

“Thanks. It was for you, too.”

“We know…” Iwaizumi continues, “Oikawa cried. About three times. And I did, too.” That sounded about right.

There’s a pause on the line, so Kyoutani figures that it’s good of a time as any to ask.

“Hey. …Is Oikawa there?”

“Uh, he’s knocked out from yelling at the screen and from crying…” There’s a shifty sound on the other end, which is probably Iwaizumi confirming that Oikawa is asleep, “Why, do you want to talk to him—”

“No, _God no_.”

Iwaizumi laughs on the other end, static and chuckles mixing through the line, “Figured as much. What’s up, then?”

“Why do you like him?”

“Huh?! Kentarou, what the fuck.”

“Sorry, I—”

“It’s a long story, I just didn’t expect that from you,” Kyoutani can see Iwaizumi on the other end blushing, doing that thing where he kicks his feet at the ground, “Uh… this seems like one of those ‘asking for a friend’ things… If you know what I mean.”

Kyoutani is dense, but he knows what Iwaizumi means, and takes advantage of it: “Um, yeah. My… friend likes someone, and he doesn’t think he should.”

“Why not?”

“The person he likes is annoying as fuck, and confusing as shit, too,” Kyoutani has to tell himself to calm down a bit here and does so by purging images of a Pomeranian-haired president from the forefront of his mind, “But he can’t help it.” The feeling of a tight chest returns, despite his efforts, each and every one.

“Do you think they’d be good together?”

“Not sure,” because he doesn’t know what _together_ would look like. Then he remembers the hug, “Maybe.”

“Hm. Sometimes you gotta get it out of your system you know, lay it all out there and see what happens.”

The use of _you_ is not lost on Kyoutani, “I said that this is _for my friend.”_

“I meant in general! Still applies for your very close _friend._ ”

Silence, because Kyoutani knows he hasn’t been smooth, but just the idea that someone else knows about his feelings is a bit too much in the moment.

Silence, which Iwaizumi breaks, “Will your friend tell them?”

“Probably not. It might be the end of the world if he does.”

It’d literally be insufferable, it _is_ insufferable, realizing day by day, minute by minute that he’s hopelessly snared by feelings that he can’t drive away. Scarier still that recently he hasn’t tried to fight them.

“I know what you—your friend feels like,” Kyoutani doesn’t need to be told that Oikawa is insufferable, too. “But—I think your friend should tell him, because it’s what I did—and even if he didn’t feel the same, I think I needed to know an answer.” 

Iwaizumi finishes, “I’m rooting for your friend.” Traces of a smile in that sentence.

He’d give Iwaizumi an indignant piece of his mind if he weren’t currently burning up on the grass lawn.

“Okay.”

“That all, Kentarou?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“’Kay. Ya know, we’re flying back for our spring break and will show up at a practice to whip you guys back into shape. Just ‘cause you won doesn’t mean you can be lazy.”

“Oh? Okay. See you soon, then.” 

“See you, Kentarou.” 

“Bye.”

* * *

_Seijoh, some day in the early spring._

Recently, Yahaba has been skittish, temperamental, and there’s something slightly off. He sits further from Kyoutani in the grass, doesn’t badger Kyoutani to practice jump serves at lunch, and doesn’t scold Kyoutani when he asks to borrow a pencil.

Things are actually very off, but they still spend lunches together, still walk from class to class together, and still Kyoutani stops by the little student council room when he sees the light is still on. Yahaba hasn’t fallen asleep on Kyoutani in a while, though. It shouldn’t drive Kyoutani as crazy as it does.

But they’re still usually found together, in the same places. Because they don’t—they don’t really have anyone else, at school at least. And going from being alone to having someone is a big change but then going from having someone to having no one is an even bigger one. They both know it.

Kyoutani would like to ask what’s wrong, and he would have if he weren’t so damn afraid of what Yahaba might say back. Today, he gets his answer.

It’s break time when Kyoutani can’t find Yahaba at his locker and decides to check the student council room since he’ll probably be there. Kyoutani tends to forget that the second week of each month is another student council meeting, which happens during break.

He opens the little door to the familiar room and sees five other student officers besides Yahaba inside as well, they’re wrapping up whatever they were doing, shoving papers from Yahaba into their backpacks and getting ready to go. They begin to file out of the door, so Kyoutani holds it open for them, waiting for Yahaba to come out so they can head to their next class. It’s a bit weird how used to waiting for Yahaba he is now, but he doesn’t really mind.

One of them, second to last out beside Yahaba, looks sort of familiar— _where has he seen him before?_ —and gives Kyoutani a mischievous look as he emerges, then nudges Yahaba—

“Prez, your boyfriend’s here.” _Oh._ Kyoutani remembers.

Kyoutani is a fixture in the hallway, and he can only stay still, holding open the door.

Yahaba fires back, “Seiichi, he’s _not_ my boyfriend.”

The acid that Yahaba denies it with stings Kyoutani, but it’s not like he’s lying.

Seiichi stills and smoothly recovers, “Chill out, it was just a joke.”

“Then fucking stop it.”

The atmosphere immediately stills, and Seiichi looks to Kyoutani for help, but Kyoutani only can focus on the unwavering anger in Yahaba’s eyes—anger that’s masking fear. Fear edging in on his pupils, making them small in his cinnamon irises. Flaring nostrils would signal aggression, but Kyoutani reads closer and sees the tremble of his fist. Seiichi eyes the fist, stepping back against the hallway wall.

Here is his answer to anything and everything Kyoutani’s been confused by.

Yahaba’s afraid.

…Of being his boyfriend?

Seiichi tries to diffuse the situation, holding up his hands, “Okay, _calm down_ , I didn’t think y—”

“You weren’t _thinking_ at all.”

This is bad. There’s more anger, than fear, in Yahaba’s eyes now and he takes a step closer to Seiichi, stubbornly in his face, reminding Kyoutani of their very own fight months ago. Except this time there’s not a good reason to fight.

Kyoutani reaches out his hand to touch Yahaba’s arm, to warn him, but Yahaba shakes his grip loose, a little too hard and a little too harshly and again, Kyoutani is stung. His heart becomes a rock, and he decides he’ll let Yahaba do whatever he wants, because he won’t be able to stop him.

Now, Seiichi’s face wrinkles, and he’s starting to get angry—rightfully so, “What the hell—why are you so—”

“So what?” Yahaba steps forward, pushing the question into Seiichi’s face.

Seiichi growls, “Back off.”

“No.”

With a furious, stunned glare, Seiichi raises his right arm to push Yahaba back, _probably_ , but it also could be that he’s ready to punch and Kyoutani can’t have that—so Kyoutani shoves Yahaba aside to safety.

He shoves Yahaba a bit too hard, because he’s a bit too hurt.

A bit too up in his own head because his heart hurts and his eyes sting.

He does this to throw a badly aimed punch at Seiichi.

Kyoutani doesn’t mean the punch, but just like with volleyball, he forgets his own power, and a punch infused with too much raw strength, too much unconscious desire to cause the same hurt he’s feeling, which the receiver doesn’t deserve lands awkwardly on the apple of a cheekbone. The force jerks Seiichi’s skull back into the glass window of the hallway with a dull thud and the splintery sound of glass cracking.

The bell rings and the third period teacher swings the door open to see the three of them.

Seiichi falls to his knees, cradling his pink—it will be blue and green—cheek with his hand, and Kyoutani’s breath hitches when he sees the beginnings of a crack in the glass where the impact had been.

His heart thumps and he is relieved to see no blood on Seiichi’s head, but only for a second because it’s too much and he’s been entirely too much. And he’s so _, so_ sorry but he can’t say that because it won’t matter.

He doesn’t dare look at Yahaba, entirely afraid that he’ll see a look that is pure fear, and pure fear alone.

The only option he thinks he has is to leave.

So that’s just what he does—he runs to the staircase, ignoring, not hearing, the _Kyoutani!_ that follows him down the hallway and hammers in his head as he trips down the stairs and stumbles past the gates.

He’s not sure if it’s Sasaki-sensei or Yahaba, or both that had yelled it, but he’s not waiting around to find out.

* * *

The crack in the window would be beautiful, if one didn’t know what had made it.

It’s a spiderweb, the middle from where Seiichi’s head had hit—the locus of the cracks, then lines spreading out from the center, almost like a snowflake. A sick snowflake, about five inches in diameter, immortalized in this window.

“He was trying to protect me. You know he wouldn’t hurt anybody normally.”

“Even if so, he’s hurt a student and damaged school property.”

“It’s our priority to protect all students, not just one over the other.” 

“You—you can’t do this! There’s only a month of school left, _what is he going to do?!”_

“I’m sorry, Yahaba. I know you were friends.”

Kyoutani Kentarou has been expelled on two counts: destruction of school property and causing bodily harm to a student. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the privilege of hearing the news himself, having fled the scene of the crime, and so the Kyoutani household will have a rather strongly worded voicemail to listen to tonight.

Absent to the accusations, all of which were true, Yahaba had spoken on behalf of the defendant, but it’s a doomed trial to begin with—Kyoutani’s track record and reputation with the teachers does not give him an easy out, and what he has done, is very easily seen to be unforgiveable.

He fights and fights and fights with testimonies of _He wouldn’t hurt a fly_ and _It was all my fault, can’t you punish me instead?_ and _Seiichi, please, please, please… Say that it is my fault_ , all of which are not enough, which he knew.

Tracing the cracks in the glass with his fingertip, Yahaba chooses not to hear the last school bell ring, just like he chose not to hear the damning words, “Kyoutani Kentarou is banned from school grounds,” in the front office.

Students flood into the hallways, and the hustle and bustle of Friday cheer and happiness to get home to kick off the weekend are the infuriating backdrop to Yahaba’s guilt. He continues to trace the cracks, making his way to the center, where his fingertip catches on one of the ridges and he feels the pinprick of an invisible shard of glass. He doesn’t care, and keeps moving it along, leaving a small red line of blood that fills the crack to the middle of the spiderweb.

On his way to the center, he happens to dislodge some of the loose fragments, which tinkle to the floor with a pretty melody, almost mocking him.

The pad of his index finger puddles with bright red blood, so he draws it away and lets his hand fall to his side, staring at the crack in the window, punched into existence by Kyoutani, but really made by Yahaba.

Within minutes, the hallways are empty, and he is alone again, and it is only then when he finishes the job by punching right into the center, barely hearing the tinkle of the rest of the shards to the floor. The window would need to be replaced anyways. His sneakers crunch on glass as he steps back to take in the sight of the bigger spiderweb in the window, complete with a hole in the middle.

Chuckling heartlessly, “Look at the mess we’ve made, Kyoutani.” He pokes at more of the glass to dislodge it.

Recklessly and without knowing why, he bends down and picks up some of the shards that have fallen to the floor, ignoring the protests of his sensitive fingers.

“Actually, it’s the mess I made.”

Kyoutani is expelled, out there alone, probably slow to register what he’s done, as he always is. Definitely scared out of his mind. 

Because of him.

Kyoutani, who didn’t even fight back when Yahaba had shoved him around every single day since they had gotten to know each other, had hurt someone else for him, and the glaring truth of it is harder to bear than anything else Yahaba knows. 

* * *

A broody stare means _hello_. It's his normal greeting. 

A grunt from him means _I’ll do better._ Usually used when he's focusing.

A lazy scratch on the head means _I’m bored._ This one happens a lot when he's in class. 

And that pat on the back during the hug didn’t only mean _we can play together._

It also means _I like you, but I won’t say it until you’re ready,_ but Yahaba’s just been too purposefully ignorant to listen to it until now.

* * *

“I’m so sorry, Kyoutani.”

His finger slips, and a shard pokes him in the palm, so he winces.

And he feels the burn of his white-hot tears fall, which he wipes at his cheeks to get rid of them, stabbing himself with the invisible splinters he can’t see, and so he stops and lets them fall as he pretends to pick up the rest of the shards, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Tries to clean up the mess the only way he knows how.

“Vice-Pres, that you?” 

Lifting his gaze from his kneeled position, he sees the all-too-familiar face of his least-favorite, but most acquainted-with alumni upperclassman: Oikawa Tooru. It’s strange to see him now, though. He’s accompanied by a stouter, strong man who Yahaba recognizes as his co-captain from last year. 

“It _is_ you—are you alright?!” Oikawa gasps when he catches sight of Yahaba’s face—which normally would have caused Yahaba’s blood to curdle, but today he knows how much of a wreck he must look. 

He croaks, “Please leave me alone.”

The man next to Oikawa places a hand on his shoulder, “’Kawa, let’s leave, this dude needs space.”

Oikawa turns to him—it’s annoying the way they discuss together with such intimacy, as if he is not there. 

“He could know where Kyouken is—”

“I _don’t_ know where Kyoutani is,” Yahaba’s voice cracks, “But I can tell you it’s not here. He’s never going to be here again. …He’s been expelled.” Saying it himself is a punch to the gut.

Yahaba gestures to the glass all around him and looks at the window, a terrible explanation for what has happened but the message that something bad has happened gets across, and Oikawa runs a hand through his hair and bunches it, clearly realizing the gravity of it all. 

“Oh shit,” and the two of them sag their shoulders, “Iwa, didn’t we tell him to call when things were _going_ to be bad, not after…”

“I know. Let me think… Fuck.” ‘Iwa’ puts his hands to his temples in concentration and seems to remember something: “Are—are you the guy—who’s been helping him out with grades and…?” _And what?_

‘Iwa’ makes no attempt to finish his question, so Yahaba answers with some of his own. 

“Uh… yeah? What’s it to you? Why are you even here?”

‘Iwa’ explains, “We came ‘cause Coach asked for an alumni practice game, since Kyoutani was missing so we went to go find him, no one seemed to know where he was. We’re going to go look for him, if you want to come.” He extends a hand to Yahaba, which Yahaba would like to take, but his fingers are bloody and splintered, and he doesn’t want to hurt anybody else today.

Oikawa interrupts, “No, he needs to rest—he’s bleeding… Vice-Pres go get yourself cleaned up. You never took care of yourself,” Yahaba stiffens, not knowing Oikawa ever noticed or cared about his fellow council members, “So go do that now. Is your number still the same? I think I still have it.”

It’s all Yahaba can do to nod, he vaguely remembers Oikawa’s number in his phone.

“Okay, great. We’ll call you when we find him.”

They’re so sure they’ll find Kyoutani. Yahaba listens to their tandem footsteps fade, wondering if that’s what a team does for each other, and he’s glad that Kyoutani has one, one that he’s not officially a part of yet tried to force himself into.

Look where that had gotten them.

Yahaba doesn’t leave his spot until the elderly janitor stops by with a broom, gloves, and pan.

It’s a bit troubling to explain what the pile of glittery glass, speckled with red and moistened with salty tears, is doing by a destroyed window, so Yahaba doesn’t explain.

He gives the janitor a thin-lipped smile and a spazz of a nod, then leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was painful for me to write the scene where Kyoutani hurts someone else, but I had to do it, I'm sorry. I can't really see him hurting anybody else unless he thought Yahaba was going to be hurt. Give me thoughts on headcanons for Kyoutani you may have!! I refuse to read the manga until S5 of the anime comes out and I would love to know more characterization for him. 
> 
> It doesn't seem like it, but I tried to focus on making dialogue more realistic. It's also hard to vary up some writing things that I tend to do, which is make a lot of lists and repeat a lot of sentence structure - which I am trying so hard to break out of! I'm very rambly (if you can't tell... lol) Anywhoo, was finally excited to get a Saturday where I could write, so thank you for the very patient 22 of you who are subscribed. Love you <3


	7. A Day Long Overdue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last line of "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch is: 
> 
> "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

He’s running, running in the shower of pearlescent rain.

 _Slap, slap, whap._

It’s falling unevenly, as though buckets are being poured from the sky, God crying at the irony of it all. The pouring showers are welcome for him, because the moisture on his cheeks he can just chalk up to the rain.

He’s sprinting, foregoing a car drive or a hurried hop on the subway, because this is something he needs to do by himself. He’s not making it as hard as possible, but he refuses to accept anything that will make this easier.

He’s chosen the easy way out for so long.

It’s harder to tell if the rain is making him faster or slower—he could be hydroplaning on the pavement in his flat-bottomed rubber sneakers, hurtling towards his destination; yet he could be slower with the hesitant caution of not wanting to faceplant into wet drywall or crosswalk poles. Today, slippery sidewalks only cause near-crashes instead of full wipeouts, karma keeping him on his feet, having been punished enough prior. 

He’s running, running to an address he had asked for from his parents _just an hour_ before this moment.

_You’re going now?_

_I have to. I’m very late._

Too late?

Running, _running_ to an address he should have delivered a birthday present to, sprinting, splashing through puddles to a place where he doesn’t even know what the doorbell looks like, the mailbox could be on a post out front or a tiny square in a big metal box. Not sure if it’s a high-rise penthouse or a compact one-story, he’s on his way no matter what.

Regardless, he should have been there to show up for New Years’ with fizzlers in tow or with assorted strawberry mochi for the first day of fall—to celebrate and congratulate the miniscule and the monumental—and for all the just ‘causes and I-wanted-to-see-you’s, too.

Squelchy socks cushion his running, his run to a home that he should have run to a long time ago. Shigeru thinks that this is the first time he’s fallen so low, he’s not sure if he’s in a daze or if it’s the first time he actually knows what he has to do. There’s a possibility it’s both, he won’t remember the side streets he passes, he will remember his sense of mission.

He’s running, running with his cinnamon hair sopping on his forehead, because it’s penance.

Getting sick from the chilling wetness is the mildest punishment he can receive for all his years of selfishness, he sends a brazen invitation to the universe to gift him a fever, if it wishes.

So here he is: knocking, knocking gently at the chestnut door.

Praying— _praying_ that the person who answers the door is the one who is least likely to, shivering as his knuckles make contact, shaky joints making it harder to make his presence known to the inhabitants.

Sniffling, wiping at his face with his sleeve, because he’s a fucking mess, he knows he’s just going to have to do it again, when he sees her:

She’s in the doorway, purple bunny slippers and a matching set of lavender sleepwear, an equally sleepy face to match, rubbing at her eyes in disbelief. She looks the same as ever, a sight for his very sore eyes, one that he shouldn’t be allowed to see. It’s possible not a day has gone by.

Yachi Hitoka stands there in the doorway, with her mouth fallen open, surprise shown but not voiced.

She’s so perfect, suddenly all bright-eyed and ready to listen, his best childhood friend, and he feels no hatred from her, because Yachi Hitoka can’t really hate anyone—and that’s what makes her so special.

Everything that had gone wrong between them was his fault, too.

Yachi looks up at him, and he looks at her, not bothering to fix his soaked shirt or pull back his matted bangs. She’s seen it all and so she can see his worst.

It isn’t a direct apology, because there’s not one that could ever voice how sorry he is, but it’s something. It’s taking responsibility. It comes out like this: 

“The reason I’m alone is _me_.”

That’s the undeniable chant that’s lived in his mind since Kyoutani’s been expelled.

And he heaves, heaves out a sob that sounds so hoarse, one that he didn’t know he had in him, one that was completely unplanned and all the sticky saliva in his throat bunches up as he struggles to breathe, because his diaphragm is wildly punching up into his lungs, and he’s realizing that he’s driven his only two true friends from himself.

 _Me._ A lonely word.

_Glass splinters on the floor, forbidden feelings for a boy._

_A lame apology; a neglected, but barely forgotten best friend._

A hand on his shoulder. Small fingers stroke his wet shirt, warm at the tips.

“That’s not true, Shigeru.”

She makes _me_ an _us._

With only one sentence. It’s not magic, but it’s a spell, conjuring the telltale precursors of tingly tension straight to the tip of his nose, which quivers and swells as he feels even more of the emotional dam break loose. She’s a best friend, not a fairy godmother, and yet she grants every wish before he voices it. 

Yachi speaks, softer than soft, “Can you talk to me about it?”

If home is a person, Yachi’s the front door.

No, he can’t talk just yet, not at the moment at least. He’s still heaving. Pistons in the pit of his stomach jettison upwards and force his chest to expel what he’s been keeping in. Yahaba’s head is now on her purple pajama-ed shoulder, slobbering and soaking the gingham cloth, but he knows she doesn’t mind one bit. She’ll stand there.

Finally, his body seems to understand that he’s currently emptied all of his reserves of saltwater and phlegm, his body slack and flaccid from the wracking outpouring of secrets that should have come out a long time ago.

“Yachi, can you forgive me?”

“Shigeru, I already did,” he knows as much, “That same day,” when he’s fallen apart, she’s put together.

Ushering him inside, she fusses, “Come inside, won’t you?”

_If home is a person, Yachi’s the front door._

He finally turned the key.

She leads him into the Yachi apartment, dim and quiet because her mother isn’t home from the office yet. She closes the door behind them, now safely in their bedroom. He’s dripping on her floor, so she gets him an old tee-shirt, one that he’s left there before for when they had sleepovers. It doesn’t feel like his because he hasn’t seen it in forever, but he’s so glad she has it.

If home is a person, Yachi’s the closet, things forgotten are kept safe in the dusty dark. 

With a ballooned breath—or maybe it’s a shaky sigh—Yahaba Shigeru lets his story pour out, and it comes out easier than he expected, because maybe secrets are only made to be told to a best friend.

Every single detail, every single sentence flows out as though they’re in that same student council room, gossiping about Oikawa.

He embellishes the memory of the first day he had sat next to Kyoutani Kentarou, he dramatizes their study-session sequence, and even takes his time with how he had relearned how to play volleyball. Kyoutani would have rolled his eyes if he were there, yet it is how Yahaba remembers everything.

Yachi nods earnestly and eagerly through it all.

He tells her the highs: the way Kyoutani could drive away loneliness even without speaking and a single shrug _(his naps on Kyoutani, he leaves out)_ , their meditative routine of walking to class together in one-sided silence _(he doesn’t say Kyoutani listens like no one else does)_ , the way sometimes sitting outside for lunch could be good for the spirit _(he forgets to say how close they sat)_.

 _He was there every single day for me_.

He tells her the lows: feeling like the teacher’s lackey (not wanting to get attached), yelling at Kyoutani in frustration (because he had wanted him to be better), and… the expulsion.

 _Until he wasn’t_.

Even with all that, he still hasn’t told her everything.

Yahaba sits on her floor, now covered in a generous towel she’s wrapped around him, cradling a cup of tea as she nods and listens to all the mistakes, all the moments, and all the unresolved questions he has in his overloaded, short-circuited brain.

And finally, he’s run out of all the good bits to talk about: “Yachi. I couldn’t do it after you left.”

They sit together, she hands him Mr. Whiskers, whom he gratefully pats.

She asks, “What couldn’t you do?”

“Make friends,” he continues, a lump in his throat, “He was the only one.” He was the best one.

He’s getting to it, but it’s so hard to say, because he hasn’t admitted it to himself, either yet. He trips over the words, karma getting him back now.

“But Yachi, that’s where it’s so wrong. It—”

“A true friendship can never be wrong.” She gives him her shy smile.

She means them, too.

Yahaba clears his throat, which immediately fills up again, “But it’s not—I, l—,” It’s not a friendship, what he wants isn’t… 

Yachi takes his hand and smiles again, “Take your time.”

She’s on the foot of her bed, lightly swinging her legs, in the opposite direction. One comes up, as the other falls down. Same frequency, but different times.

“You don’t even have to say it, if you don’t want to.” _She knows._

“Yachi,” he stills, because once this gets out, it’s something he can’t shove back in.

Saying it means it is real.

Saying it gives it life, the forbidden to the forefront.

Saying it out loud will not be like flipping a switch, but he won’t ever be the same. Yahaba Shigeru will be a different person, and the air molecules will distribute the secret—that’s how paranoid he is right now. But he’s going to say it.

“I like him. I… like him… and I never, _ever_ told him.”

Yachi’s a timid, shy girl who people may think have a heart of glass, but that’s so wrong.

She’s fearless for her friend and her heart is gold—valuable, strong, and ready to mold to whoever needs help.

She’s braver than Yahaba’s ever been, even when they were only prepubescent teenagers, she could always proclaim how she felt without one of her stammers. Now, her legs swing in tandem, bunny slippers reunited as they bounce back and forth. She hops down from her bed, to the spot on the floor where he is, pulling him into her side.

His role model isn’t Akira. It’s his best friend.

“ _You said it_ ,” she squeezes his hand.

“Shigeru, you’ll be okay, maybe not today, but soon,” she hugs him with Mr. Whiskers compressed between them, and Yahaba breaks again, but in a good way.

Shell cracking open for the tender center as leaky tears re-wet his cheeks, but they’re not even salty anymore, he shuts his puffy eyes, which are easy to close his inflated lids. The tears are warm and reassuring.

_If home is a person, Yachi’s the mirror in the bedroom._

The stranger in the mirror is actually him, a face that is new, but familiar. He sees himself as she shows him, which gives him the ability to finally forgive.

He came to her house, knowing Yachi had long forgiven him.

He came, because he had needed to forgive himself.

Yachi lets go, giving him some space, “Well, what do you want to do about it?”

The foreign feeling of a grin sneaks up on him, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

She pauses, reflecting on everything Yahaba’s told her—which is a lot.

Thinking out loud, she says, “Wait for a little. He will come back to you, because he seems to care about you. At the moment, he’s probably dealing with a lot, like trying to find a new school. Then, when you see him, don’t let him go.”

Yachi continues, high voice unwavering, “This time, don’t let a different school come between you and someone else.” A pang sears through Yahaba’s chest, knowing he could have had Yachi with him all this time. He’ll listen to her, to make up for his last mistake. History won’t repeat itself here.

“Okay.”

Looking around her room, Yahaba relaxes for the first time since arriving. Their photobooth photos _are_ up on the wall, right above her neat desk. Seeing the two of them immortalized on her wall makes him smile, and Yachi tilts her head, curious.

Then, his eye catches a sketched-out poster on her desk—this one has a clever black crow on it—flanked with a volleyball. Black and orange lettering command attention to the unquestionable slogan: Fly.

Karasuno has let Yachi do just that. 

Yahaba pivots, “I’m doing it again. Ranting about myself. Tell me about you.”

Sensing that he needs the change, she follows his gaze to the poster.

 _I’m a team manager,_ she says, with pride. They’re obviously welcoming to her unique skills and her tireless support— _they’re a lucky team_ , he says.

The team, she says, was scary at first, but she paints a picture of her new friends, a boy with a head and heart of blazing fire and his opposite, a raven-haired genius with a calculating demeanor but a well-meaning, tender consideration of others. There’s also a beanpole with a sharp tongue and an even keener intellect, and his counterpart with a nasty jump-float that doesn’t match his friendly, freckled face. They all love her, and she loves all of them.

 _They’re nothing like you, but you’re you in the best way_ , she reassures.

Somehow, Yahaba’s not jealous; somehow, he’s proud to be her friend.

* * *

“Kentarou!”

The door slams and rattles the entire apartment. It’s a good thing his baby sister is a deep sleeper. Kyoutani correctly guesses that his mother has received a certain voicemail, the same one on their home answering machine.

_Your student, Kyoutani Kentarou, has been expelled from Aoba Johsai High and is banned from school grounds. Please call back at your earliest convenience._

“Kentarou, _what_ are we going to do?” His mother’s voice goes shrill with tension and he watches her pace the kitchen as he sits on the floor.

“I—we—we can’t move far from the hospital…”

She’s implying that they can’t move far from her place of work. What she’s hiding is that she can’t move far from the last place that housed her late husband.

“And Aoba Johsai is the best school around here…”

The only reason Kyoutani is at Aoba Johsai is on athletic scholarship, and now that’s gone, he is also at a loss for what to do, similarly to his mother.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I’ll get a job. _I’ll help you.”_

He thinks he can get a job at a convenience store, maybe even help his mother out instead of being a drag, like he has been this whole time.

High school dropout with a part-time job might work out better than delinquent, good-for-nothing son.

“ _No,_ that’s not what this is about. Money has been hard, but that’s not it,” she sits down next to him on the floor, burying her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes hard. “You _can’t—you just can’t punch people_! How could you do that?! I almost told them they had the wrong kid…” Her tired eyes peer back at him now, questioning Kyoutani.

“What happened?”

He tells his mother that he was protecting a friend but got too carried away. He says that he let his emotions get the better of him.

He tells the truth. 

“You fought for someone else?”

“Yes.”

“Then… then you understand how I feel, which means I should understand how you feel.”

A warrior herself, his mother is always fighting for his sister and him, and it’s not a losing battle, though it is a draining one. She straightens out, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

On her shaky exhale, she says, “We still have to find you another school, Kentarou. And throwing a punch is _not_ always the answer.”

“I know, not my best Ma.”

They sit together, Kyoutani’s hand on his mother’s knee. She stares at the wall, not looking at anything in particular.

“I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to scream at you. But you seem to know.”

Kyoutani shrugs, “You can scream, if you want.”

Sometimes people need to yell, _like Yahaba that one time_ , Kyoutani thinks.

“No, Kentarou,” she sighs again, too tired and overwhelmed to yell. “It’s just that if your Dad were here, he would have understood you completely.”

“I know, Ma.”

Barely a whisper, “It’s hard to be two people at one time.”

She collapses in on herself. Kyoutani keeps his hand on her knee as she shields her face from view.

Speaking to fingers over her face, he tells her, “You don’t have to be Dad too.” 

Machiko cries from the other room, and they’re broken out of the spell. Kyoutani stands up and holds his hand out to his mother, who takes it and rises up next to him. Together, they walk to Machiko’s room.

Kyoutani reads her _Love You Always,_ while Machiko nods off again, his mother stroking her head as she drools. _Love You Always_ is a bit tattered, older than the rest, Kyoutani is told it was a book they had gotten for him.

The verses from Machiko’s picture books always sound strange to him when he reads, because he doesn’t get the rhythm down, nor does he have good sense of when to make his words rise and fall. He just tries to get the job done.

His mother smiles when he finishes the last line, though he’s not sure why since it had been a subpar reading.

* * *

Looking up from his planner, Yahaba sees a shaved head in a track jacket. It’s Watari, the volleyball team captain, staring at Yahaba.

The lunch bell has rung, but Yahaba had sat unmoving, back to eating in the classrooms ever since Kyoutani’s expulsion.

“Hm?” 

Watari offers, “Do you want to eat with us?”

“Oh, I really should—,” Yahaba grasps for excuses that don’t exist. He doesn’t want to eat with people who will remind him of Kyoutani, who he’s trying his best not to think about.

“The team wants to meet you.”

There’s something about Watari that’s straightforward and businesslike, and Yahaba appreciates it.

“Why?”

“To ask how the uptight president who hated the volleyball team suddenly turned into our biggest fan at Nationals,” Yahaba shrugs at Watari’s tease, all the while penciling down his list of tasks for after school.

“ _That_ , and Kunimi swears your jump serve is badass and we wanted to see it ourselves.” 

A flare of competitiveness flashes in his chest, but it’s doused by the memory of who had taught him.

“I… don’t feel like serving,” Watari sags at Yahaba’s declaration, “ _But,_ I’ll come eat.” Then he perks up again.

“Fair enough,” he waits as Yahaba puts all of notebooks into his bag, “…But I have money bet against you making it over the net, so when you do, be sure to miss for me. I’ll split it with you.” Watari lifts his eyebrow at Yahaba, extending the proposition for an alliance. They head out into the hallway, making their way in the direction of the volleyball gym.

Yahaba chides, “No amount is going to make me miss _on purpose_ ,” which gets a chuckle from Watari.

“I see how it is,” Watari gives a fake glare. “You’re funny.” 

They make their way over to the table outside the gym, full of volleyball players stuffing their faces with food, elbowing each other on accident to shovel in their fare. There is a voraciousness here that Yahaba recognizes from Kyoutani—all volleyball players must exist to play volleyball and eat to play volleyball well. Yahaba recognizes Kunimi and Kindaichi, who perk up and wave between bites and wave to him.

Though the table looks to be full, the first years wordlessly make room for Yahaba without so much as batting an eye, and so he sits down tentatively next to the skittish setter who introduces himself as Fujimoto. Watari declines a seat and stands at the head of the table.

“This is Yahaba, he’s in my year and he’s Kyoutani’s friend.” 

At the mention of Kyoutani, everyone turns to Yahaba with a solemn stare, giving him knowing nods of comfort.

Watari takes a bite of his apple, munching through it as he says, “Iwaizumi says he hasn’t been able to reach him. Has Kyoutani texted you, Pres?”

If only. The last message is from him, which he had sent after coming home from visiting Yachi: _hey, text me when everything’s alright. hope u r okay._

No response, and it had been three days. On the other hand, he has been hearing plenty from Oikawa, the first text from him: “ _vice-pres! no luck with finding him… iwa and i don’t know where he lives, he wasn’t one to ever host team hangouts or anything. let me know if you hear from him!”_

With a sigh, Yahaba says, “No, but I think he’ll come around when he’s ready. I hope.” 

There’s a pat on his back from Watari, and Kunimi and Kindaichi look at each other, then at Yahaba.

Kindaichi prods, “I’ve never seen Kyoutani spend time with anyone more than with you.”

“Well, it was forced upon him by the school,” Yahaba wistfully remembers the relentless foot-tapping every period, “I’m basically what happens after detention stops working.” He laughs at his own joke, and Watari does, too—definitely only out of pity.

Regardless of the fact that Yahaba’s been the one to spend the most time with him, they’re clearly all affected. 

Kunimi’s voice is quieter, but audible since no one is speaking, “He hung around, though. Must mean something.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

Watari nudges him, “You like ramen?”

“Yes?”

“Come with us after our practice. It’s kinda tradition. Oikawa and Iwaizumi would take us when we won.”

The rest of the table cheers for ramen, though they’re still in the middle of eating lunch. As always, food is king with high schoolers, no matter how close the last meal was.

Yahaba asks, “Did you win anything today, Watari?” Fujimoto stifles a giggle next to him.

“Stop asking so many questions,” Watari huffs, “Just come eat with us.”

Oikawa’s had been good for something. Yahaba can get behind ramen.

* * *

_The local pond, Kentarou’s twelfth birthday, 4:33pm_

Fishing, Kentarou decides, is entirely overrated.

However, his dad had insisted that Kentarou do it at least once, even if he only catches a minnow, _because that’s size proportionate. You’re a minnow, too, boy._

Kyoutani’s dad sets down his pole, “Why do you like volleyball, Kentarou?”

“Huh?”

“Kentarou, don’t just like something because I like it. Do you have your own reason?”

Confused, Kentarou had thought volleyball was something for both him and his dad to do together, he can’t really see them doing it apart. Even if Kentarou is playing a game, his dad is there, in the sidelines. They’re together.

He takes a stab, “Uh… I like to hit the ball.”

“I guess that’s enough of a reason for now.”

His dad chuckles and guides Kentarou’s pole to move the bob in the water, over to a spot with more reeds. Kentarou does his best to hold it in place, though he’s feeling fidgety. 

“No matter what it is, make sure you like something for yourself. If you don’t stop to think about whether or not you like something, pretty soon you’re going to end up doing something you don’t like. You don’t always have to go with whatever other people are doing. Maybe there is no reason, maybe you’re just sure of it.”

Pretty sure that his mother would not like Kentarou telling her _I’m not eating the green beans because I don’t like them, and Dad said not to do things I don’t like_ , is not going to pan out for him in the long run, he pretends that he’s focused on fishing.

“If you like something, then that’s enough. Just make sure _you_ like it—”

Either Kentarou is really fidgety, or there’s a nibble at the line.

“Whoa, pull it in!”

Fussing with the reel, Kentarou uses his hand to wind the line back, then realizes he’s doing it the wrong way, and moves it counterclockwise. Finally, a silver ovalene shape emerges from the green water, wriggling. A minnow.

At Kentarou’s insistence, after snapping a photo, they release the minnow back into the pond with a _plop_.

* * *

_The local pond. Revisited on a Sunday afternoon. 4:04pm._

Slipping off his shirt, Kentarou throws it onto the bank before wading in, only clad in his boxers. Since the water is colder than anticipated, it’s less pleasant of an experience than he would like, so he instead brings his arms over his head and dives further in, to acclimate himself faster.

Surfacing, he likes the way the water helps him think clearly, clearer than he’s been thinking in the past few days. Even the air he breathes feels sharper, probably from the moisture that coats the inside of his nostrils.

_Dad, what if I don’t have any good reasons, yet?_

Kentarou does the breaststroke to the middle of the pond, wondering why even though his mother had found a public school nearby that was willing to take him in for the last month of his high school career, he somehow doesn’t want to embrace the opportunity to start anew.

He’s enrolled, starting tomorrow, and he really should be thankful for the miracle.

If he’s a phenom at volleyball, he can play anytime, anywhere, with anyone.

If this were back then, he wouldn’t give half a shit as to where he was, as long as there’s a ball and a net.

He’ll be dead before he ever admits this.

There’s really no place like Seijoh.

Slapping the water with his palms, Kentarou watches the ridge of the wave he created bow out and over, then disappear back into the pond. Not wanting to disturb the fish with his own current, he instead opts to float on his back.

The sky is an orange-tinted magenta, natural and incandescent before the sunset—nothing like the harsh mint-green of Aoba Johsai’s jerseys.

Seijoh has a team who took a chance on him. Oikawa is one of the only people who had given him a second chance. Seeing through the lone wolf exterior, Oikawa had sucked it up and forged an alliance. Eventually, the rest of the team followed, and they’re there for him on the court when he needs them, and also when he doesn’t. The first people who taught him that he’s worth a second chance. By proxy, the first people who taught him that he should never waste one.

Seijoh has the first adult other than his parents who took him seriously. Coach Nobuteru’s first words to Kentarou were, “If you screw up my team because of your attitude, you’re out.”

After his first tournament and about dozen successful spikes later, he had said, “You can stay.”

And…

Seijoh has Yahaba Shigeru.

A dichotomy of instability and strength. Unsure of himself, yet conviction stronger than someone twice his size for what he believes in. He’s cold, calculating, yet warm and understanding—only if you’ve earned it.

Long ago, Kyoutani had stopped pretending that the inability to breathe whenever Yahaba’s a tad too close is general uncomfortableness. The new normal had been prolonged, indulgent stares whenever Yahaba has a devious smirk, cheeky and clever for an idea—he has several up in there. Instead, he had come to wait and hope for the convenient and accidental contact, silent prayers usually unanswered.

Kyoutani shifts in the water a bit, rebalancing himself in the cool murk. 

Kentarou will remember his last hug with Shigeru, because he’s replayed it in his mind and burned it into his eyelids before he’s slept. He revisits it, more so now than ever, wanting to remember Yahaba like that instead of how he left things. 

Absolutely infuriating. It’s infuriating that he’s no longer annoyed, having surrendered a long time ago.

Because, Yahaba Shigeru is strong. _Stubborn, oh-so stubborn. But strong._

Yahaba Shigeru doesn’t mind the sweat.

Most of all, Kentarou’s sure that he likes him.

Even if there are a million good reasons and even if there weren’t.


End file.
